


deadweight

by orphan_account



Series: deadweight [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Kink, Enemies to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-07 23:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20984417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Peter had searched for years and found a lot of things, but never Beck. What he found instead was the real truth about vampires— that not all of them were weird and charming strangers in the night. That most were happy to drain you dry without a second thought. That they were monsters that preyed on humans without remorse.Peter got pretty good at finding them, and then he got even better at killing them.(Or, the five times that Peter let Beck get away, plus the one time he didn't.)





	1. first meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm here to bring horny vampire shenanigans just in time for Halloween! This fic is about 80% finished and will be posted in its entirety by October 18th! It was written for some fun between friends, and because I don't know when to stop with these two...it turned into a monster (pun intended). 
> 
> The title is from Deadweight by Beck...because I think I'm hilarious.

**Halloween - 1995**

Aunt May had warned him not to stay out past curfew.

It wasn’t her curfew either, but a city ordinance put into effect after a recent string of homicides had left their small New England town drowning in fear-driven panic. There was a killer on the loose, and a nasty one at that— brutally maiming and draining their victims of blood, leaving the bodies in ditches and yards and alleyways.

A real, messed-up horror show.

So, yeah, his aunt, and the police, and all of his teachers had warned him— but did he listen? No.

Every shadow and rattle of the wind had him on edge, looking over his shoulder at every sound, and he walked as quickly as he could through the empty streets. Most folks had turned their porch lights off, trying to dissuade any brave trick-or-treaters who might want to linger around after dark for extra Halloween candy. Some just outright didn’t want to answer the door for strangers.

Which, okay, that was fair. But it made his walk home highly stressful when the only guiding lights were dim, flickering streetlamps.

He really, really should have just stayed in bed.

God, he was _sixteen_. That was too old for Halloween parties, right?

And he didn’t even get the chance to smear his last-minute skeleton face paint while making out with MJ during spin-the-bottle. He’d landed on fucking _Flash Thompson_ on the first turn and politely excused himself from the rest of the game. There hadn’t even been booze! Not that he would have drunk any, May would have just killed him herself, but he’d just been kinda expecting it with his first real high school party.

So yeah, a bust. Totally not worth it.

Peter hugged his denim jacket tighter around him, trapping in what little warmth he could to protect himself from the frigid October air. Kept his hood up to obscure his face and make himself look a little menacing so that no one would want to mess with him.

He was almost there. Just a couple more blocks.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being followed. It was that unexplainable sensation of eyes on him, watching from some distant shadow, burning a hole in the back of his head. He really should have grabbed that baseball bat on his way out.

Peter spun around, chest heaving. Nothing, just a stretch of empty sidewalk and lines of dark, sleeping houses with their doors locked like normal, sane people. His eyes darted around, trying to make out any threatening to shapes in the night.

Again, nothing but his overactive imagination.

Peter sighed, closed his eyes and squared his shoulders. He was fine. That killer was probably miles from town by now. They never stayed in the same place for very long, right? Plus, how cliché would it be to kill someone on Halloween?

But maybe…maybe he should run the rest of the way home. Just in case.

Peter turned on his heel, fully prepared to break out in a sprint, only to slam into something hard and solid. Something that definitely hadn’t been there moments before. His heart stopped, all the blood rushing from his body. It was always said that your entire life flashed before your eyes right before you died, but all Peter saw was red.

Blood, and a lot of it, straining the front of a white shirt.

He scrambled back in a futile attempt to escape, tripping over his own feet and falling hard onto his ass, hands scraping against the concrete while trying to break the fall. Peter groaned, wincing when he felt the skin break, and for a brief moment all he could think to do was look up at the shadowy figure looming over him.

“Please,” he whispered, holding up his bloodied palms to shield himself. He didn’t care how pathetic he looked or sounded, and if this was a prank— whatever. He’d worry about looking like a baby to some deranged, probably drunk, upperclassman later. Right now, he just didn’t want to die. “Please, just let me go.”

Right. Because how many times did that work? All of this psychopath’s victims probably begged for the same thing before he drained them like a stuck pig and left them in a ditch.

Peter waited for the inevitable.

And he waited.

Huh?

He lowered his hands and blinked up at the strange man staggering above him, eyes wide. The man who then fell to his knees and— sniffed the air?

What the…

Shit. Maybe this wasn’t a killer at all. The blood? The disorientation? Maybe this was a _victim_. Which meant they both needed to get out of there, and quick.

“Hey, man, you okay?” Peter leaned up, reaching for him, placing a hand on his shoulder to keep him upright. “What’s your name?”

Under the streetlamp, Peter got a better look. The guy looked absolutely feral, terrifying in its own right, with big, blue eyes that sported pinpoints for pupils. God, he was probably just coked out of his mind or something. Not that it made the situation any better. That was still a hell of a lot of blood.

“Alright,” Peter said slowly. No name. Got it. “Look, we should get out of here.”

The man’s answer came in the form of a snarl, showing off his bloodied, sharp teeth—and it was then that Peter noticed the red caked in his beard. The extended canines that eerily resembled fangs. The cold, inhuman temperature of his shoulder.

Oh, _no fucking way_.

Peter jerked his hand back, only for it to be snatched up in a painfully hard grip, large fingers wrapping around his delicate wrist and squeezing tightly, exerting just enough pressure that Peter had no choice but to unfurl his fist.

The man hummed, a tiny tug of his lips that created a rather frightening and lopsided smile. “Beck,” he drawled, and leaned in closer to, once again, sniff the air. 

Peter blinked, taken back by the sudden absurdity of it all; forgetting, for just a moment, to be scared. “What?”

“You asked my name,” he said, flashing his teeth.

No, flashing his _fangs_. Peter felt light-headed. Maybe he had tripped and hit his head. Maybe he’d wake up in the hospital with a concussion and this would all be a very bad, weird dream. Maybe this was just some drunk dude who wandered away from a party? That was more logical.

Because—vampires didn’t exist. Right?

Especially vampires named—

“Beck?” Peter’s face twisted up. “Like _Loser_ Beck?”

It was Beck’s turn to look confused, the hold on Peter’s wrist slacking just a fraction. “What?”

“You know,” Peter tried to remember the melody, humming it under his breath, “_I’m a loser, baby? Why don’t you kill me?_”

“I wasn’t going to,” Beck growled, hauling him closer with a quick jerk, regaining his death grip on Peter and drawing his hand to his mouth. “But you asked so nicely.”

“Wait—_ahhh_, what the—” Peter bit his lip, muffling the whine that tried to escape him when Beck drug the flat of his tongue up his bloodied palm. He gagged and tried to tug away, but Beck kept him in place, licking between his fingers. “That’s— _mmm_, that’s fucking gross.”

Beck stopped, pulling back and staring hard at Peter’s hand with an expression that Peter couldn’t even begin to decode. “No,” he said quietly, then lifted his gaze to meet his in an almost an otherworldly glow of blue.

Oh. Peter remembered to be scared. “W-what?”

“It isn’t gross.”

He’d argue if he had a death wish. One year, in gym class, he’d been pelted in the face with a dodgeball and he swore he tasted blood for a week. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience. But the way Beck looked at him when he said it, head tilting like he was confused by the realization…

That was strange.

“Don’t you like it?” Peter asked—meaning of course, blood in general—but Beck’s eyes dilated, and he licked his lips and Peter’s stomach flipped.

Oh, shit.

He wasn’t sure how it happened, Beck moved crazy fast, but Peter found himself on his back, sprawled on the sidewalk. Beck wedged himself between Peter’s legs, his weight supported by a hand planted on either side of his head.

Nope, this wasn’t good.

He hovered over Peter, dipping down to nose along his cheek, the underside of his jaw, his _neck_.

Beck licked over his pulse-point and Peter whimpered.

Wait. If he was really a vampire, did that mean—? Was he going to _bite_ him?

“Stop,” Peter cried out, mouth finally working. He tried to push at Beck’s chest, which just turned into twisting his fingers into the front of his shirt once he gave Peter another slow lick. “Don’t— you can’t— _I can’t_…”

Beck’s mouth hovered over the vein in his neck, fangs lightly scraping. “Why not? You could live forever. I could show you how.”

“Because,” Peter said weakly, head spinning, “I have midterms coming up and—”

Beck pulled back, staring down at him, mouth hanging open in disbelief. “Did you just turn down eternal life because you have _school_?”

Peter felt his cheeks heat up, despite having a cold, technically dead, body pressed against his. “Not just school,” he mumbled, looking away from the judgmental squint of Beck’s eyes. He shrugged. “I like my life.”

It sounded stupid but, Peter _did_ like his life. He wanted to grow old and get a nine-to-five, and all the normal things that normal people did. He didn’t want to live forever. But he didn’t say that, because that was super lame, and Beck was, well…

He was a monster. Wasn’t he?

Just like that, the weird fog finally cleared from his brain, reality finally catching up with him and clocking him in the back of the head. Beck had killed those people, fed on them. Right? There was no way that was a coincidence. A vampire in town and mysteriously drained bodies? Beck had probably killed tonight, judging by the state of his shirt, and Beck would probably kill him too.

Or, worse, turn him against his will.

“What’s wrong?” Beck’s eyes narrowed, and Peter flinched when he brought his hand to place two fingers at his pulse. “You’re scared.”

“No shit!” Peter hissed. “You— you killed all those people! The bodies on the news. That was you.”

Beck dared to look offended. “What? No.”

“You’re covered in blood,” Peter pointed out, and Beck looked down at himself, surprised like he’d only just noticed. “Look, if you just let me go, I swear I won’t tell anyone. I won’t. No one would even believe me! I’ll take it to my grave—”

Okay, poor choice of words.

“Kid, stop. Calm down, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Peter hadn’t even noticed he was shaking, thrashing violently trying to get out from beneath Beck’s weight. He was held still by a powerful grip on his arms, bracketed in place by strong, thick thighs now slung over his waist, so tiny in comparison to all that bulk. He tried to calm down, tried to regulate his breathing, but his heart wouldn’t stop pounding against his chest. Each breath felt like agony; like he was already dying.

“Breathe,” Beck was saying, mimicking an exaggerated inhale and exhale. “Slowly, good. That’s it.”

Peter slumped against the sidewalk like a ragdoll, his panic ebbing away to leave a hollow feeling. He watched Beck with hooded eyes as he continued to demonstrate how to properly breathe. Weird, Peter thought. Did vampires even need to breathe?

“I’m not going to kill you,” Beck said softly, but apparently caught the way Peter pursed his lips and added, “I’m not going to turn you either. Jesus, you really are just a kid.”

Peter frowned. Was it weird that vaguely offended him? Probably. But, hey, Beck didn’t seem to think he was a kid when he was so intent to lick on his neck—or offer to _keep_ him a kid forever. Kinda hypocritical, if you asked him.

“How old are you then?”

“Older than you,” Beck retorted, sitting back to leave Peter colder than before. He stood with a groan and crack of his joints. Well, that kinda gave it away. “Don’t be rude.”

Peter waved him off, getting to his feet and brushing away the remnants of dead leaves clinging to his pants. He felt oddly calm now; at ease. Which— that was absolutely insane given the circumstances. There wasn’t any explaining it though. It felt almost supernatural.

“Hey, are you doing that?” Peter asked, tilting his head up to look at him.

God, Beck was tall. Broad too. Odd. He always pictured vampires like the old black and white movies— lanky and skeletal with comically large fangs poking from their thin lips. Beck could be any regular guy.

“Doing what?”

“You know,” Peter shrugged, “making me feel safe?”

Beck blinked and, for a moment, he was the one that looked scared. “You feel safe?”

Peter shrugged again. He did. Despite his earlier minor freak-out, he felt that he was handling all this pretty well. That had to be Beck’s freaky vampire magic, right?

“I mean, yeah.”

For a while, Beck didn’t say anything at all, just stood with his hand over his mouth, staring a hole through Peter with those creepy, kinda hot, blue eyes. Shit. Did he have something on his face? Peter lifted a self-conscious hand to his cheek and felt his fingertip slip through the greasy, cheap make-up.

Great.

He looked like an idiot. At least the shitty skeleton paint job hid the fact that his face turned scarlet.

“Can you stop staring at me?” Peter grumbled, tugging his hood back over his head.

“Sorry,” Beck said, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He also didn’t stop staring. “You should get home, kid. I’m sure someone is waiting for you, right?”

“Just my aunt,” Peter replied, a little too quickly, “not like a girlfriend or anything.”

Beck raised an eyebrow. “Thanks for the clarification.”

“Right,” he said on a swallow. “So, I just leave?”

“I— what?” Beck pursed his lips together, tilting his head, those thick eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He stepped aside and held out a hand, presenting the long stretch of empty sidewalk like he was Vanna White. “Go on.”

“Okay,” Peter said slowly, cautiously walking past Beck, eyes never leaving him. Part of it felt like a prank; like Beck was going to start laughing maniacally and snatch him up and take a chunk out of his neck. It felt like he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I’m going.”

“Barely. Speed it up, I don’t have all night.”

“What do you have to do?” Peter stopped, turning around. “Vampire stuff?”

Beck groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, look, I wasn’t going to do this—but I have a feeling you’re going to become a problem if I don’t. C’mere, kiddo.”

Before that night, Peter had always felt like he had pretty good self-preservation skills. He knew how to avoid bullies at school. He knew the safest routes home. He was well aware of stranger danger and everything else that they drilled in your head during afternoon assemblies.

So, when exactly did he flip off his fight-or-flight switch?

Peter nodded and stepped back into Beck’s space. Didn’t even flinch when he gently touched his chin and guided his head up, locking him in place with a sharp stare.

“What’s your name?” Beck asked, voice low.

“Peter,” he answered mechanically. “Peter Parker.”

Beck smiled, his thumb stroking Peter’s chin, soothing and calm. “Okay, Peter Parker, listen to me. You’re going to go home. You’re going to get in bed. You’re going to wake up and tell your aunt about this weird dream you had.”

Peter nodded.

“Good. Because that’s all this is. It’s just a dream, Pete.”

_A dream._

Wait. That wasn’t right.

Peter frowned, jerking himself out of the weak trance. It wasn’t a dream and Peter had questions—_a lot of questions_— and he wanted answers. Answers that Beck clearly wasn’t willing to give up. Not if he was trying to hypnotize the truth out of him. This was all too amazing like something straight out of his comic books. He wasn’t going to let him go so easily.

Whatever. For now? Let Beck think he won.

Peter _would_ find him again.

“Is this real?” Beck murmured; voice strange. He swiped his thumb over Peter’s bottom lip, eyes hooded and gaze distant. “Answer me.”

“No,” Peter lied, making sure to keep his tone flat and robotic. “You’re just a dream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always loved and appreciated! :D
> 
> & come yell about Beck and Peter with me on twitter! @shineonloki1


	2. reunited

Peter stared at his reflection in the dirty, cracked mirror. Bass pumped outside the door, loud and with enough reverb that it rattled the loose tiles on the walls. He was knee-deep in the fucking danger zone and he looked like prime vampire bait.

And that meant the chances of him getting out of there alive were slim-to-none if things went belly up.

Speaking of belly— Peter tugged at his shirt, trying to hide the sliver of stomach it exposed. Sure, the _point_ was to look enticing, but maybe this was taking it a step too far; he looked like a cheap rent boy. His pants were too tight, his shirt was too small, and he’d only barely managed to shove his stake into his boot. But, humans in the underground served a certain purpose, and if Peter wanted to get in close enough to find Beck, he needed to look the part.

His heart skipped a beat and he white-knuckled the edge of the sink.

_Beck._

Peter had searched for years and found _a lot_ of things, but never Beck. What he found instead was the truth about vampires— that not all of them were weird and charming strangers in the night. That most were happy to drain you dry without a second thought. That they were monsters that preyed on humans without remorse.

Peter got pretty good at finding them, and then he got even better at killing them.

And, after years of training and hunting, he had finally tracked down Beck, the origin of his five-year obsession, all the way to an underground club in New York City. Peter couldn’t explain it, but he _felt_ him the moment he walked in. Even through the sea of squirming, dancing bodies—human and vampire alike— he _knew_ he was there.

Now, he was going to kill him.

Peter took a deep breath and gave himself one more nod of affirmation in the mirror. He could do this.

The moment he stepped outside the bathroom, he was shoved in a current of moving arms and legs. The lights pulsed in bright, neon colors with the beat of the music, everything dark, and yet somehow glowing. He pushed himself through the crowd, his vision obstructed by artificial fog and waving hands until finally he broke free and collapsed against an empty wall on the other side of the club.

Okay, maybe he couldn’t do this.

“You look lost.”

Peter turned his head, expecting the owner of the voice to be a lot closer than she was. He could barely hear his own thoughts over the music, but the smooth vibrato had drifted right into his ear. She smiled slowly, seductively, and Peter caught the smallest flash of fang.

“Just catching my breath,” he told her, putting on a fake smile. “Actually, I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh?” She slinked closer, moving along the wall like a dangerous shadow, and Peter became hyper-aware of the wooden stake pressed to his calf. “Maybe I can help.”

“Beck,” Peter blurted, “I’m looking for someone named Beck. Do you know him?”

Her face, so poised and prim before, fell flat. Rolling her eyes, she jerked her head up toward the rafters, where Peter could see what looked to be the balcony of a loft area. “Take the stairs around the corner.”

Oh, god. He hadn’t expected Beck to be that close. Peter’s palms went sweaty and he felt his heart rate spike to near astronomical proportions.

His new friend must have felt it too because her wicked smile returned. She could probably hear just how hard his heart was pounding. Cradling her glass of suspiciously red liquid to her chest, she gave him a slow, obvious once-over that made his skin crawl.

“I should have known,” she purred, “you’re just his type.”

Peter swallowed down the lump in his throat, not even half prepared to juggle the implications of _that_ particular statement. He nodded his head and mumbled a quiet appreciation, pushing past her only to feel a hot glare rake down his back. She wanted to eat him alive— but it hardly mattered, he had a severe case of tunnel vision now.

Okay. At least she hadn’t lied to him. The stairs _were_ literally just around the corner. Only, a bulky man dressed in all black stood behind a velvet rope, guarding the entrance, his face fixed with a permanent snarl.

Great. Why did he think this was going to be easy?

“Excuse me, sir.” Peter placed a delicate hand on the rope, smiling demurely. “I’m here for Beck.”

The bouncer spared him one quick glance and lifted the partition without a word.

Okay. Peter blinked. It _was_ that easy.

He inched past him, giving a curt, yet sweet, nod of his head. Got one foot on the first step and froze.

Shit.

This never happened to him. Ever. He’d sliced the heads off vamps clean off their shoulders. He’d set them on fire. He’d staked them through the heart. He’d doused them in holy water until they bubbled. Hundreds, maybe even thousands. So, why the fuck was he trembling?

“Go on!” Peter turned to watch the clearly agitated bouncer jab a finger in his direction. “He’s been waiting.”

_Waiting?_

Peter barely had time to process what he’d heard before he was shoved hard in the back, sending him stumbling up the next couple steps. He caught himself on the railing, doing his best to ignore the nasty laugh behind him. Alright. Well, someone just made _the list_.

He couldn’t deny that push got him going though. As if on autopilot, Peter stomped up the stairs. One foot in front of the other. He counted them, just to clear his head of the adrenaline rush.

_One, two, three…_

Until there were no more steps and Peter stood facing a large, open lounge area. The music was softer and somehow separate from the house music that thumped away below. Freaky vampire magic, probably. Everything was an illusion to them. But at least the lighting wasn’t on the verge of giving him a seizure, just a low red glow that barely lit the space.

The weird tug in his chest, the one that told him Beck was there in the first place, tightened up. Told him exactly where to look.

Peter found him across the lounge, sprawled across a black leather sofa. He looked so different than how he remembered him, even if he knew logically that those memories were rose-tinted. Peter had come to learn what Beck _really_ was. He wasn’t a little kid anymore.

Yet, part of him had still expected, maybe even hoped, to see that gentle wide-eyed man in a blood-stained tee.

Not this _sleazeball_ in a half-unbuttoned shirt and—what was that? A gold chain. Seriously?

Beck looked up from his drink, familiar eyes immediately locking in on Peter like a target. He handed off his glass to a leather-clad server and pointed a finger, slowly crooking it in a come-hither motion.

Peter looked around like he might have been addressing literally anyone else.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Beck called, lopsided smile on his lips. “Over here.”

_Sweetheart_. Peter’s treacherous heart ticked just a beat quicker.

Oh, he was going to get it.

(_It_ being a stake, right through his stupidly handsome face.)

The first few steps were wobbly, knock-kneed like a newborn deer. He had so much adrenaline pumping through him, he could probably free-throw a semi. Hell, he could probably take out this whole establishment if he wanted. But first, he had to get to—

Beck reached out, grabbed him by the wrist, and pulled him onto his lap. Peter went limp, legs instinctively straddling Beck’s thighs, sinking down on him effortlessly. Like he was made to do it.

And, okay, this wasn’t exactly what he had in mind but at least now he was more than close enough for the kill. Peter looked over his shoulder, counting the bodies, trying to decipher who was human and who was a vampire. It was easy enough to tell them apart. The humans all looked doped out of there mind, marked up with bloody puncture wounds.

A hand touched his chin, guiding his gaze back around.

“Hey now, I’m right here—” Beck snapped his mouth shut, eyes going steely. The grip on Peter’s chin tightened just a fraction, pulling him just a little closer. Beck’s thumb rubbed gently beneath his lips, and then across it. Peter let him, drawing in a shaky breath. “Do I know you?”

_What?_

Beck really didn’t recognize him. Even this close?

Okay. Why did that hurt so bad? Because Peter had spent five years trying to find him? Because he had gone to bed every night that first year, with _nothing_ but Beck on his mind? That he had thought—

Yeah. He had every right to feel jilted.

But, if Beck didn’t recognize him, that was probably for the best. It’d make the job easier.

Peter shook his head and smiled sweetly, bringing a hand to cup his cheek. He leaned down, rubbing his nose along the scruff of Beck’s beard, preening only a little when he heard a low groan. Cold hands wrapped around his waist, squeezing him lightly before sliding under his shirt and up his back. Desperate, needy movements.

Got him.

“Why don’t we go somewhere more private,” Peter whispered, and he felt Beck tense beneath him.

_Shit_. His voice.

He needed a quick distraction. Something that would fog up Beck’s head nice and good.

When in doubt— Peter slipped a hand between them, gasping outright when he got a hefty palmful of already half-hard cock. His fingers tightened, squeezing, and holy shit— he could barely fit it all in his hand. Peter pulled back, looking down and then back up, only to find Beck’s jaw slack, his eyes hooded and watching.

He squeezed again, and Beck’s eyes fluttered shut completely.

Oh. This was dangerous. This was _so_ dangerous.

Peter's head dropped to Beck’s shoulder and his fingers switched from fumbled squeezing to properly kneading on their own volition. He couldn’t help but whimper when blunt nails raked down his back, and he felt Beck turn into the crook of his neck. Felt a hot, wet tongue slide over his throat.

Everything stopped.

Peter wasn’t sure how it happened, how he ended upright, standing to be drug across the floor at an inhuman speed, one that he couldn’t possibly keep up with. His feet just tripped over one another, and the only thing that wasn’t turned into a blur was the visual of Beck’s broad shoulders, his hand on Peter’s wrist as he pulled him through a heavy curtain.

“Wait—”

Peter got all of five seconds to realize that they were in a _private_ room before he was spun around and slammed against the wall. Beck’s body covered his, heavy and pressing, nearly crushing him with the weight of it. But, god, it felt good. “Shit, wait— _mmm_.”

Beck licked up his neck again, this time with the entire flat of his tongue, stopping to suck at his pulse point.

“Oh, fuck,” Peter gasped, head dropping back to the wall with a thud. His hands clawed at Beck’s arms, pushing and pulling like he couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted him to stay or go. And that was the problem.

He _didn’t_ know.

All he knew was that Beck apparently thought he was some pre-paid meal and he was either going to get bit or fucked— probably both— he just wasn’t sure in what order and he needed to _stop _before he found out the hard way. Peter drew his leg up Beck’s side, sliding his foot along his calf. The wooden stake burned hot in his boot. His fingers reached for it. Found it. Pulled it out.

Deep breath. He could do this.

_“Peter.”_

The stake clattered to the ground.

Oh, no.

Beck pulled back slowly. Damn. He looked just how Peter remembered him—otherworldly blues eyes, pinpricks for pupils, a crazed crook to his lips. Just as handsome. Just as terrifying. Peter watched as his gaze dropped to the ground, to the sharpened wood lying at their feet. This was bad. This was worse than bad. Peter was fast, but he knew Beck was faster. He’d never get to it before him.

“Hey, wait—”

Beck bent to a squat, picking up the stake and giving it a quick, unimpressed look before he tossed it over his shoulder. “Peter,” he said with a playful accusation, clicking his tongue. “Did you come here to kill me?”

He could lie, but what would be the point? It was pretty obvious Beck knew exactly why he was there. This was all Beck toying with him, playing with his food. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a lie.

“Yes.”

Of all things, Peter wasn’t expecting a laugh, and he certainly wasn’t expecting Beck to lean forward and press his nose to his exposed sliver belly, or for those big hands to feel so good when they gripped his hips. He let his eyes close and his head tilt back, gasping at the scape of Beck’s beard against his skin.

“No,” Beck growled, right into the meat of him, nipping lightly with sharp teeth, “I don’t think you did.”

Peter meant to argue, but all that escaped him was a shamefully needy whine. He grabbed a fistful of Beck’s dark hair, twisting his fingers tighter and tighter until he heard a hitch of breath. It was almost embarrassing how many times he’d thought about being in this exact position— back when he was still young and naïve and thought Beck could have been anything other than what he truly was. There was a part of him that still thrilled to see him on his knees. Old habits die hard, and all that.

“Think what you want,” Peter finally mumbled, “I don’t care.”

Beck looked up from beneath dark lashes and licked a hot stripe to Peter’s navel. He grinned like a shark while Peter squirmed and panted, his eyes dropping to the very visible situation forming between Peter’s legs.

Shit.

Beck raised an eyebrow. “Looks like you might care a little bit.”

There were a lot of paths that Peter could take at that moment. He could ignore him. He could ignore the ever-growing problem in his pants. He could try to sweet talk himself out of the situation. He could just give in and let Beck have his way.

But, no. He didn’t do any of those sane, more logical, things.

Peter panicked and kneed Beck as hard as he could right in his stupid face. For a few stunned moments, he just stood there, chest heaving, staring down at an oddly human-looking Beck while he wiped a trickle of blood from beneath his nose. Oh, fuck. Some professional he was.

Rule number one about dealing with vampires: _Don’t piss them off._

Unless, of course, you’re equipped to handle it. Right. He needed his stake. Where the hell did Beck toss it? Peter’s eyes darted around the room, every corner, taking note of the exit, the curtains, the flickering candles, and the—bed? God, what? Was this Beck’s _fuck nest_?

“Shit, Pete,” Beck laughed, pinching his bridge, “I think you broke my nose.”

“Probably did you a favor,” Peter snapped, finally catching sight of a wooden handle sticking out from beneath the duvet. He lunged, rolling forward and landing at the foot of the bed. Okay. Maybe he was showing out a little— but _only_ so Beck would take him seriously.

“Yeah, Karate Kid, I saw you.”

Peter groaned and snatched up the stake, whipping around, ready to strike that smarmy, greasy bastard right through the heart. Or, the hollow place in his chest where a heart might have once resided. Beck didn’t even flinch, just stayed sprawled on the floor, leaning back on his hands with his legs spread. Peter squinted. Did he—? Did he undo another shirt button? There definitely wasn’t that much skin showing before.

He felt his face heat up, his cheeks turning pink, and the situation in his pants rang a little reminder bell. Great. Betrayed by his own body.

“Come on,” Beck said, voice low and set to challenge. “Show me what you got, sweetheart.”

Peter let out a frustrated growl and threw himself at Beck. All his years of training and hunting flew right out of the window. No finesse, just five years’ worth of pure, unadulterated pent-up rage. He hauled himself Beck’s legs, ignored the knowing look in his eye, twisted one hand in his collar and raised the stake high above his head.

He hesitated.

“Well?” Beck looked at him expectantly.

God, he wasn’t even scared in the slightest. Like he knew that Peter wasn’t going to do shit.

“Just tell me the truth,” Peter said, surprised at how steady it came out. He kept the stake raised, hoping Beck didn’t notice the way he trembled. “Did you kill those people?”

Beck blinked up at him. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

“Don’t be difficult,” Peter bit out, refusing to acknowledge what was clearly meant to be a tasteless joke. “Do you remember the night we met?”

Something flashed across Beck’s face. Peter tried to catch it, tried to make sense of it, but it was gone quicker than it came.

“Vaguely.”

But Peter heard the truth. Beck remembered, maybe even as vividly as he did.

“Whatever,” he mumbled. “There was a curfew that night because someone had been killing and draining bodies. You said that it wasn’t you and—” Peter stumbled, suddenly feeling stupid, “I believed you.”

“You don’t believe me now?”

No. He didn’t.

Did he?

Peter opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again— just really doing his best impression of a fish out of water. He jerked Beck forward by his collar and tried not to be annoyed that his effort was met with a smirk. “Did you kill them?”

Beck shook his head and laughed. “I’m not that sloppy.”

Peter swallowed, his hold on the stake growing lax. The longer he looked at Beck, the harder this got. He had told himself months ago, back when he first tracked him to NYC, that it didn’t really matter the answer. That Beck was still a vampire. That he was gonna kill him anyway.

God, why didn’t Beck just give him the answer he needed to make this easy?

“But,” Peter whispered, licking his lips, “I know you’ve killed before.”

“Jesus, is that what you want to hear?” Beck asked, finally offended. “Yeah, Pete, I’ve killed. Come on, I know you’re smarter than that.”

Something primal took over the cognitive part of Peter’s brain. He tossed his weapon aside, sent it skittering across the floor, and laid into Beck the old fashion way— with his fists. He got in one good sock to the jaw before Beck was grabbing and flipping him over, manhandling him onto his back.

“Hey—"

Peter kneed him right between the legs, taking the momentary window of opportunity to roll from beneath him, and scrambled to his feet. Why did he throw his only real source of protection again? Okay, it looked like he was going to have to resort to the back-up, back-up plan.

_Run._

Peter made it all of two steps toward the exit. Beck jerked him back by the scruff of his neck and tossed him to the bed. He landed against the soft mattress with a bounce and Beck wasted no time crawling in after him. Peter found himself caged in by Beck’s arms, his legs, his thick waist, and broad chest. Not an ounce of sweat on him.

Fucking show off.

“Get off me,” Peter spat, but strangely, he didn’t find himself putting up much of a fight. He told himself it was because resistance was pointless, and not because his body was responding in a very inappropriate manner to the way it felt to be pinned beneath Beck.

“You know, I remember you being a lot nicer.”

“Thought you—” Peter jerked, putting up a futile show of protest. Something to work him up and explain his red cheeks and fluttery heart. “Thought you only _vaguely_ remembered me?”

Beck gave a long, dramatic sigh, his lips twitching and catching into a smile. “I missed you, kiddo.”

Peter’s stomach flipped, and the only thing he was rendered capable to do was turn his head and mumble, “I’m not a kid.”

“Yeah. Almost didn’t recognize you without your makeup,” Beck teased. Then his eyes went soft, and Peter had a hard time looking away. “You’ve grown up on me.”

“Yeah?” He meant it give it some attitude, but it came out breathless.

Beck hummed, leaning down to nose at the slip of skin exposed at his collarbone. Peter couldn’t help but whine, hips twitching involuntarily. He moved, finally, to push Beck off—or, maybe to drag him in, who knew anymore— but Beck caught his wrists in his hands, pinning them down to the mattress. He didn’t look angry. Peter had _seen_ angry vampires.

Beck looked like he was having the time of his life.

“So, why did you come here?”

“I told you,” Peter swallowed hard. Oh well, might as well be brazen until the end. “I’m going to kill you.”

Beck shook his head, hair falling forward. “No, and I told you that you’re not.”

Okay. Peter saw what he was trying to do. The intense stare, the gravelly tone. He’d seen it before.

“Doesn’t work on me,” he announced proudly, giving Beck the smuggest grin that he could muster. It was always a treat to watch the slowly dawning realization that their glamour didn’t affect him. Beck didn’t disappoint, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“What?”

“Your mind games. I can see straight through them,” Peter explained, “kind of like a sixth sense.”

“Terrible movie.”

“Shut up,” Peter groaned but had to bite his lip to stifle back laughter.

God, he hated him. Hated his stupid, handsome face, and his bad jokes, and the way he felt so good on top of him. It wasn’t fair. He had thought he was over this silly childhood fascination.

When he finally convinced himself that it was safe to look back up, Peter found Beck staring at him with a quiet intensity. All of his earlier humor and amusement had vanished. He didn’t look threatening, just concerned. Contemplative.

“I’m serious, kid. Why are you here?” Beck asked quietly. “I tried to give you a way out.”

Peter felt himself crack under the weight of that gaze, the heaviness in his tone. The truth slipped out of him in a broken whisper, “I wanted to see you.”

Beck sucked in a sharp breath, lips twitching back to show his fangs. It was hard to tell whether it was a display of power, or if he just ached to bite that bad.

“I thought maybe you wanted to see me too,” Peter added hesitantly. “Did you?”

“You have no idea,” Beck whispered, breath hot against his skin, teeth dragged against the base of his throat. Peter whined, arching into him, only to be pinned back down by sturdy hips, Beck’s hands still wrapped tight around his wrists. “I haven’t been able to get the taste of you out of my head.”

His head fell back against the bed with a muffled moan, teeth cutting painfully into his bottom lip. Beck mouthed at his collar, his hips working in circles between Peter’s legs, and Peter felt every rock-hard inch of him. Dizzily, in the back of his foggy head, a siren blared. Warned him not to let this go too far.

But, holy shit, he was so turned on that it _hurt._

_“Beck.”_

“Yeah?” He hummed, licking up Peter’s jaw.

“I want you to— _ahhh_, I want—"

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Beck asked. He sounded so desperate, so debauched, his hips snapping forward in urgent thrusts. Each one left Peter breathless and panting and so, so close to begging.

He opened his mouth, and nothing came out but a needy moan. Beck released his hold on one of his wrists and the moment he was free, Peter shoved his hand between their bodies, clumsy fingers finding the button to his jeans.

“That’s it,” Beck groaned, “I want to see you. Get it out. Fuck, Pete. I’m going to eat you alive.”

Peter whined, unzipped his pants, forced to squeeze himself through his briefs just to keep himself from coming on the spot. Yeah, god, okay. He wanted that. He wanted to feel Beck take him apart. He wanted to feel those sharp teeth rip into him.

He was going to tell him too, but a loud, agitated cough across the room disrupted all trains of thought.

They both froze, panting against each other, everything screeching to a halt— Peter with his fucking dick in hand.

“Quentin,” a female voice said, “I hate to interrupt.”

Quentin?

“Then why exactly are you interrupting?” Beck snapped, turning just enough to see over his shoulder. “I’m a little busy.”

_Quentin?_

“You’re needed downstairs,” she said, completely unfazed by Beck’s obvious annoyance.

“Can it wait?”

Jesus, what was going on? He looked from Beck to his— assistant? Employee?

“Urgent.”

Peter heard the click of retreating heels, and Beck sighed, turning back to him with a crooked, apologetic smile. “Sorry, kid. Raincheck?”

Suddenly everything shifted back into terrifying focus. He was in a vampire bar, in a private room, no weapon, with Beck and about a hundred other blood-thirsty creatures that would love to rip him limb from limb, all with a fucking boner. One that was rapidly disappearing the more his situation became clear.

And all Peter could think to say was— _“Quentin?”_

“Quentin Beck,” he clarified.

“Right,” Peter said, a bit dumbly, shifting with the bounce of the bed as Beck crawled off him, inconspicuously adjusting the bulge in his pants. He laid there trying to grasp his head around the reality of what was happening while simultaneously trying to forget that he was seconds away from letting Beck have his way with him— whatever that might have entailed.

“I have some business to take care of. I shouldn’t be too long if you want to, I don’t know,” Beck paused, shrugging like Peter was supposed to pick up the context clues.

He did, of course, but that wasn’t the point.

“What kind of business?” Peter asked, wiggling to prop himself up on his elbows, only becoming aware that his pants were still undone when he watched Beck’s gaze drop and his eyes linger. Oh. Interesting. He wasn’t above using his assets to get a little intel. He spread his legs and Beck licked his lips.

“Not really the kind I’d like to be getting into.”

“So,” Peter hummed, something coiling tight in his gut. “What is this? The undead mafia?”

Beck drug a hand down his face, trying and failing to hide his laugh. “Look, I have to go,” he said, “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” Peter huffed. Then— wait. What? No. “Don’t count on it.”

But Beck was already gone, leaving him alone on an empty bed like a cheap whore. Shit. He couldn’t let things spiral like this again. He was already mortified at himself for letting things get so out of control. If he couldn’t handle his libido around Beck, he’d just stay away until he had a reason to come around, and if he had a reason that meant Beck tripped up.

And if Beck tripped up, that meant he killed him.

Peter rolled out of the bed and zipped up his pants with a sigh. Yeah, this had to be his most embarrassing walk of shame to date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM AT ACE & JUST SAW JAKE AND TOM AND OHHHH BOY HERE IS A NEW CHAPTER BECAUSE MY HEART CAN'T HANDLE! but also please excuse my typos because I quickly brushed through it and I'm still shaking. /SOB
> 
> Feedback loved and appreciated. :3c


	3. helping hand

His head hit the pavement with a sickening crack, and Peter swallowed down the metallic taste of blood that pooled in his mouth, stomach turning.

How did Beck manage to drink it night after night—and for _fun_?

Okay. Yeah, that blow might have knocked something loose in his brain. Why else would he be thinking of Quentin Beck while he was knee-deep in some serious shit, about five seconds away from getting his throat ripped out by a severely pissed off vampire?

Peter rolled to his back, groaning at the sharp pain that cut through his abdomen. That wasn’t good. The alley was dark, lit only by the dim streetlight flooding in, but when he raised his hand from where it pressed against his side, he caught a glimpse all the red oozing out. Instantly he felt light-headed, a bit nauseous; which was ironic, almost laughable, given his line of work.

He was losing a lot of blood, and that meant his target could smell him from a mile away, along with all his other friends in a ten-mile radius. And, given that this was New York City, that tallied up to be a frighteningly large number.

“There you are,” a scratchy voice cooed from the mouth of the alley, “I was beginning to wonder where you crawled off too.”

Peter didn’t even have time to whip out a snappy one-liner. A gnarled hand wrapped around his throat, sharp claw-like nails digging hard enough to break the skin. Suddenly, he was face-to-face with a nasty snarl, high cheekbones, and beady eyes— a real old-world vampire. He’d make a great trophy, provided that he didn’t kill Peter first.

His vision was already starting to black, and no matter how much he tossed and clawed at the weight physically crushing him, he felt himself slipping further into that darkness. But, just like everything in his life, Peter fought it tooth-and-nail. He might go down, but not without a fight.

Peter was lucky that they’d been chasing each other all over Manhattan, and that he had got a few good strikes in, just enough to get him really mad. Enough to make him want to draw this death out. A vampire just looking to kill, or feed would have snapped his neck like a twig by now.

It bought him some time to—

The grip on neck loosened slowly and Peter felt something wet drip on his face. He licked his lips, stupid move, and tasted blood. Not his blood, something foul and rotten.

_What the fuck?_

Then he noticed the source— a stake straight through the forehead of his target. The vampire dropped on him like a ragdoll, and Peter struggled to roll the dead weight off of him, grumbling under his breath. Annoyed, because, somehow, he had a gut feeling that it wasn’t another hunter that’d just saved his ass.

Beck placed a boot on the back of the corpse of his fallen brethren and pulled out the wooden stake lodged in the skull. “You’re welcome.”

“Shut up,” Peter sat up, wincing through his pain, utterly determined not to let Beck have the satisfaction of seeing him hurt. He was already going to be smug for eternity over this. “I had him.”

“Yeah,” Beck said, tone flat, an unimpressed gaze dropping to where Peter’s hand was busy applying pressure to the gaping wound at his side. “I can see that.”

Peter huffed, rolling his eyes. It’d been a while since he’d last had a run-in with Beck. Good to see he was still as annoying as ever. In the weeks following Peter’s move to New York and their uncomfortably intimate reunion, they had formed a sort of begrudging correspondence. It was a pretty simple arrangement— Beck provided him a growing list of names and locations of the city’s more ruthless vampires and, in turn, Peter left Beck pretty much alone and didn’t ask questions when it came to his lurid business tendencies.

They had a good thing going, and Peter, for the most part, had snuffed out that lingering childhood fascination.

Except now, apparently, when he was growing light-headed and dizzy, thinking about how good Beck looked dressed to the nine in a black suit against the backdrop of a dirty alley. Blood loss was funny like that.

“Help me up,” Peter groaned.

Beck sighed, putting on a show of being inconvenienced, even as he knelt and got an arm around Peter, dragging him closer. Peter pressed his face into Beck’s chest and took in a deep breath. God, how did he always smell so good? Rich and warm and expensive. Peter rubbed his face against his collar, trying to soak it in, only vaguely aware of the way Beck went taut beneath him.

“Shit, kiddo,” Beck hissed, and Peter felt a hand cover his, pressing down on the wound on his side until he whined. Asshole. “You’re really hurt.”

“Mmm.” That was a proper response, right? Okay, maybe Beck had a point. Peter lolled his head back, looking up at him with bleary eyes, the smiled that tugged at his lips moving slow as molasses. “You worried about me?”

“You’re useful,” Beck murmured, drawing his hand back up, eyes dilating at the sight of Peter’s blood staining his fingers. His fangs were fully extended, his mouth trembling. Peter could tell he wanted to lick it away, and so he was left more than a little confused when Beck scrubbed his hand on his pant leg instead.

Huh. That took some restraint that he hadn’t known Beck capable of. He was being good—which wasn’t any fun.

“How bad do you wanna drink from me right now?” Peter asked just to be a dick. He didn’t even try to suppress the manic giggle that bubbled out of him. It was just so much fun to needle, to watch Beck contort himself into pretzels trying to keep up the impression that he was _different_.

“Stop—”

“All this blood, you wouldn’t even have to bite. Your friend already did the hard work for you,” Peter continued, basking the way Beck’s hold on him tightened to near painful. “But that’s the fun part, isn’t it? The biting?”

“Jesus, Pete, do you even hear yourself?” Beck’s voice came out strained and so close.

Peter tried to focus, but his vision doubled and blurred, and he realized, distantly, that he was starting to see not one, but two Beck’s—each with their stupid thick eyebrows drawn together in worry. Oh.

“Yeah,” he slurred, head falling back to Beck’s chest. “Can you get me to a hospital?”

“I’ll do you one better.”

Alright. Whatever that meant. Peter didn’t have it in him to argue, or to put up a fight when Beck heaved him up bridal-style, packing him in close. Vampires didn’t give off body heat, but god, Beck felt so warm and comforting—and okay, maybe that was the fever talking. The point still stood, he felt good.

He felt safe.

He also felt like he was going to pass out.

“Where are you taking me?” Peter mumbled.

“Somewhere safe.”

Safe. There was that word again. The worst part was, Peter believed him. In all fairness, he was Beck’s enemy, just as much as Beck was his, and his state was vulnerable, already half-dead with rapid blood loss. It’d serve Beck well to just toss him in a dumpster and let him bleed out. That’d be the smart thing.

And yet, Peter didn’t fear that at all, even as the world faded around him. He closed his eyes, listening to the quiet, hushed reassurances given to him.

_“Hey, hang in there, kiddo. We’re almost there.”_

_“You’re going to be alright.”_

_“Just a little more, you’re okay.”_

_“I got you.”_

Peter’s head hit a soft pillow, his body sinking into a warm bed. It smelled like Beck. Was this his bed? Peter reached out, fingers curling into the sheets, trying to open his heavy eyes. He caught glimpses of a room, sleek and modern, and a floor-to-ceiling window that framed a picturesque view of the city. They were high-up, Peter rationed. Beck’s penthouse.

Then Beck sat at the edge of the bed, shifting in and out of focus like a kaleidoscope. A handsome, nonsensically hot kaleidoscope.

“Hey,” Peter said weakly. He tried to smile, but something rattled in his chest, and he coughed instead. Painful and wet. He touched his lips, frowning down at his fingertips when they came away red.

Oh, shit.

“Peter, sweetheart, listen.”

Why didn’t Beck take him to a hospital?

“What—” Peter swallowed down the panic rising in his chest. “Beck?”

“You aren’t going to like this,” Beck told him, placing a hand on his cheek, using his thumb to wipe away the dribble of blood that leaked from the corner of his mouth. “You just have to trust me.”

He wasn’t going to like _what?_ Dying?

The world started to fade again, and the strangled sobs he heard began to sound distorted and distant until he finally realized, to his horror, that they didn’t belong to Beck. They were his. Beck was the one trying to keep him lucid with calm words he didn’t have the coherency to understand. Just hypnotizing chants of encouragement, telling him how good he was doing. Peter tried to fight the creeping darkness; tried to focus on Beck’s soothing voice that broke through the hazy barrier.

Something warm landed on his nose.

“You’re going to have to drink.”

“What?” Peter croaked, prying open his eyes long enough to see that is was Beck’s bleeding wrist hovering over him. “No!”

“Drink,” Beck snapped, squeezing around the wound until it dripped out in a steady stream. “Damnit, Peter. I’m trying to save you.”

Peter opened his mouth, set to argue, set to just plead for Beck to get him to a hospital before it was too late. He didn’t get that far, Beck’s blood splashing against his lips where he instinctively licked them clean. Oh. It didn’t taste like the iron that he was used to. It was sweet, pleasant, and just the few drops that he accidentally swallowed gave him a boost of adrenaline.

Peter brought Beck’s wrist down to his mouth, fitting his lips over the puncture wound and sucked greedily, feeling his strength and lucidity return to him by the droves.

“That’s it,” Beck cooed, using his free hand to pet back the sweat-soaked curls from Peter’s forehead. “Swallow me.”

Okay, he might have been half out of his head, but he recognized an innuendo when he heard one. And, seriously? Not the time, Beck. Peter pulled away, gasping. “Can you not?”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Beck laughed, pressing his wrist back to Peter’s slack and waiting mouth. “You just look so good like this—_ahhh_, slower, easy— I can’t help it.”

Peter moaned around his mouthful, eyes rolling back before fluttering shut. He couldn’t ignore the way his body responded to the new surge of power coursing through him. It was like he couldn’t get enough. He needed more, and more, until licking and lapping at Beck’s rapidly closing wound wasn’t enough.

Beck pulled back with a hiss. “Careful. Not too much.”

“Why not?” Peter grabbed Beck's arm with a strength that surprised him—and not because he had just been inches from death moments ago. He _felt_ stronger. His senses were cranked up so high, he was pretty sure the figurative knob had broken clean off. “Just a little more—"

Beck pushed him back on the bed, wrenching his arm free from Peter’s grasp. For all his newfound strength, Beck was _still _stronger.

“Don’t get greedy.”

“Why?” Peter asked. “What’s going to happen to me? I’m not going to turn, am I?”

“Drink much more and you might,” Beck clocked his look of horror and rolled his eyes. “No, relax, kid. You’re fine. Just might feel off for a couple days.”

“Off?”

Beck sighed, standing up and putting some distance between them. “Heightened senses, stronger…urges. It might be good to lay low for a while. No one needs to you’ve had my blood.”

“Oh,” Peter said, sitting up. It was strange to watch Beck move around his room. It was so familiar and strangely charming. One of those rare moments where he felt almost human. “Are you not supposed to share?”

“No,” Beck said flatly. “It isn’t really common practice. In case you forgot— we eat people, not save them.”

Peter felt his heart beat just a little faster. Probably just one of the side effects that Beck had warned him about. Right, that was all. Nothing to do with the unspoken, lingering implications of what Beck had just risked.

“So. Why’d you do it?” His voice came out quiet, unsure.

Beck stopped, in the middle of riffling through his dresser drawer, and turned slowly. The look on his face was maddening, mainly because Peter couldn’t even begin to decipher it. “You’re more inquisitive than usual,” he said, and it was obvious that there was a struggle to hide the waver.

“And you’re more evasive,” Peter countered, raising his eyebrows in a challenge. “I just mean, I don’t really get it. I know you’re like, using me as your personal hitman but— wouldn’t things be so much easier if I were out of the way? Why go through the trouble?”

If he were being honest, Peter had asked himself the same question. Over and over. Why did he keep letting Beck go? Why did they keep up the banter and the niceties? Peter didn’t owe him shit except—well, fuck. Now he kind of did, didn’t he?

Suddenly everything made so much more sense.

He owed Beck his life.

Beck opened his mouth, but Peter held up a hand, cutting him off.

“No, let me guess,” Peter snapped, voice dripping with venom. No time to really look into why that was. He should have expected this. “Now I’m, _what_? In your servitude?”

“Peter—” Beck’s face fell. His eyes darted back and forth, searching Peter’s face for an answer he evidently couldn’t find. “Do you think so little of me?”

Oh. Why did he actually look hurt? And, better question, why did _that_ sting so bad? Peter looked down at his hands folded on his lap when he was unable to face Beck’s sad expression. God, and why did he feel so fucking guilty?

“Yeah,” he lied. “You only do something if it benefits you.”

To be fair, it had been Beck that told him that.

Though, now he just let out a humorless laugh and wordlessly offered Peter the sleep clothes he’d dug from his dresser. A soft white tee and gray sweatpants. Both looked like they were going to be too big for him. Both smelled like Beck’s cologne.

Peter took them anyway, feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet, and cradled them to his chest. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Beck huffed. He turned, and Peter watched his shoulders tense up. Then, he spun immediately back around, pointing with an accusatory finger. “You know what? You’re right. Your wellbeing _does_ benefit me. If only for the selfish reason that—”

Beck snapped his mouth shut, took a deep breath through his nose and ran a shaking hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. Just get some rest, okay? Can you do that without stressing me out?”

Peter nodded, numb. It _did_ matter. It did. But all he managed to say was— “Yeah, sure.”

“Towels are the in the cabinet,” Beck nodded to a door in the corner that he assumed was the bathroom. “Clean yourself up before you roll around in my sheets. They’re expensive.”

Oh. Beck was _mad_, and not in the way that Peter typically experienced mad vampires. He wasn’t gunning to rip him in half. He wasn’t snarling to show off predatory fangs. He was stoic and intense, exuding a vexing sort of pressure that weighed heavy on Peter’s chest.

And still, even as Peter watched him stalk toward the door, he didn’t want to be left alone. Being faced with his own mortality always left a strange feeling in his gut— and, maybe it was the heightened senses or whatever, but he really, _really_ wanted Beck to stay.

“Hey, wait—”

Beck stopped but kept one foot out the door. He didn’t turn and Peter was forced to just look at the broad, sturdy expanse of his back. The only indication that Beck was listening at all was in the eerie quiet that washed over them.

Peter hesitated. “Nothing. Never mind.”

Because he couldn’t ask him to stay. He couldn’t ask Beck, a vampire, to comfort him after his brush with death. Beck _was_ death. Where was the comfort in that?

Oh, right. It was in his arms. It was against his chest. It was in all those genuine moments shared between them.

It was in Beck holding him close and whispering, _“I got you.”_

Beck waited for a moment longer, giving Peter the opportunity to tell him that—_any _of that.

He didn’t.

He kept his mouth shut and let Beck leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are idiots. I know. :'3


	4. helping hand redux

He’d have to send Beck a thank you card or something because, holy shit, this was a good one.

An _entire_ nest cozied in a cabin upstate. Seriously, was it his birthday? Was Beck trying to subtly apologize? In any case, there wasn’t anything quite as satisfying as killing two birds with one stone. Or, in this case, killing five vampires with one can of gasoline and a match.

Beck had handed him the folder over a week ago. Peter had to admit, things had been…_dicey_ between them since the alley incident. Or, the incident in which Beck had saved his life by feeding him his blood and then Peter had gone and wildly misinterpreted his intentions like a certified asshole. After that, all of his attempts at reviving their snappy, borderline flirty, banter had been met with a grim pull of lips and quick change of the subject.

Whatever. It wasn’t like it bothered him.

It wasn’t like this weekend retreat to flambé some particularly nasty vampires was partly due to Peter feeling suffocated by his own overwhelming need to fix things with Beck. Because there wasn’t anything to fix, okay? Beck was Beck and he meant nothing.

Peter groaned. Yeah, he really needed to set something on fire.

The nest truly was in the sticks— out on some backwoods winding mountain road, just a little cabin miles away from anything. Quaint, he’d call it. A shame he had to burn it down. But it was so far out that Peter could easily be back in Queens before anyone even noticed the smokestack. It’d taken him nearly seven hours to get there, driving up in a rental car. The scenery had been beautiful, so quiet and tranquil, reminding him he needed to get out of the city every once in a while. Maybe he’d take the long route home.

He _deserved_ a break.

But right now, he needed to focus. Bigger fish to fry, and all that. Peter rose from his squat in the barn where he had his stakeout equipment set-up and grabbed his can of gasoline. The sun was nice and hot, hanging high above the dense tree line, exactly where it needed to be. The fire would coax them out and nature would do the rest.

Easy.

It didn’t take any time to douse the perimeter of the house. Next was the porch and the old wooden swing that creaked sullenly in the breeze. Peter busted down the front door with a swift kick of his boot. Shag carpet, great. That had to burn easily. He covered it and the curtains and then emptied the container on a moth-eaten couch.

(He thought about just trying to find the bastards and lighting them up where they slept but, nah. He wasn’t about to go squeezing through crawlspaces. Vampires he could handle. Spiders? Not so much.)

And then Peter found out the hard way that things didn’t burn quite as quickly as they did in the movies. He’d been expecting…explosions? Something more dramatic, at least.

Oh well.

He’d used an entire canister of gasoline and it still felt like an eternity afterward that he spent lazing on the lawn. The fire crackled and popped and radiated an intense heat that kept him warm against the cool autumn breeze. Strangely relaxing, in all honesty.

Until he heard the first ear-piercing shriek.

Peter stood up, grabbing his stake, just in case, and readied himself. More than likely they’d all shrivel up and burn before they could reach him, but hey, better safe than sorry and he needed make sure the bastards actually died. Or, died again, and that this time they _stayed_ dead.

The first to burst through the door was a male vampire, tall and lanky, with the whole right side of his jacket sleeve up in flames. Peter watched as he dropped onto the sun-bathed lawn, skin smoking and sizzling, hissing with a catlike scream. One by one he watched them, each trying their best to make it to Peter across the lawn. Each failing miserably.

He had almost forgotten how bad it smelled. Burning, dead flesh? Gross.

Beck had said there would be five and, as the fifth stumbled out, in much rougher shape than the rest, he breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing more satisfying than a job well done, and an easy job at that. He twirled his stake, fully prepared to give each of the charred, beef jerky vampires a cautionary stab through the heart, when something crashed and rolled through the doorway, curling up on the burning porch.

Wait. There _had_ been five, right? Peter counted the bodies on the ground.

_One, two, three_— yeah, there were all accounted for. So, what? Did that mean he got a bonus kill? Nice.

He looked back up to the porch where the shadowy figure struggled to stand, bracing itself on the burning beams. The smoke obscured most of his vision, and he gripped his stake tighter. This one was smart. It didn’t come barreling out like the rest, suffering in the light of the sun— but it still couldn’t stay beneath the shade of the burning awning forever.

“Look, you can go up in flames right there, or you can fry up in the sun. Doesn’t matter to me. I can do this all day,” Peter called over the roar of the fire, crossing his arms and cocking his hips, content to wait it out if he had to.

But his smugness lasted all of five seconds, quickly replaced by gut-wrenching dread. The vampire took a teetering step off the porch, into the light. He recognized that soot-smudged face. Those blue, tired eyes.

Oh, shit.

Oh, no— _no, no, no_.

“Beck?” Peter’s voice came out broken, barely about a whisper. He tossed his stake to the side, somewhere in the grass, and broke out into a run across the yard, just in time to catch most of the bulk of Beck’s body as he heaved forward from the porch step. “What are you— what the fuck, man?”

“Out of the—”

“Sun, yeah. Okay. Shit,” Peter croaked, trying to adjust Beck so that he fit under his arm. It wasn’t an easy maneuver, Beck was already so much taller, so much thicker. But Peter was strong and determined, and his mind was on one steady adrenaline-fueled track.

Get Beck to safety.

Safety turned out to be the barn. At least there was shade and he could probably find a place without the daylight filtering in. But, by the time they made it through the double doors, Beck was smoking, burned up from every agonizing second in the sun. He tossed Beck to the ground, just to get him into the dark, watching with his stomach in knots as he rolled limply against the dirt without a groan or complaint.

“Fuck,” Peter mumbled, dropping to his knees, turning Beck over on his back. God, he was going to be sick. Holy shit. With shaky hands, he reached out and gently pressed his fingertips to Beck’s temple, finally hearing a sharp intake of breath, weak and wheezing as it was. “You’re going to be okay. I’m gonna fix this, alright?”

Peter looked around frantically. How the fuck was he supposed to fix it? Beck looked like a goddamn horror show.

“What the hell were you doing in there, huh?” Peter asked. He just needed to hear a voice, even if it was his own. Anything to drown out the noise of the fire burning on the other side of the barn door. “You sent me to kill them—so, why? You knew that I was coming.”

Though, it wasn’t like he had shared his tactics. Fuck. He should have told Beck what he was planning. He shouldn’t have fucking burned down the place without _checking_ first. This was his fault. Beck was going to die and it _was his fault_.

No.

“I’m not gonna let you die,” Peter whispered, gritting his teeth and sniffing back his tears, “I promise. Do you hear me?”

Beck cracked open an eye, his mouth twitching into what was probably meant to be a smile. The dam in Peter’s chest broke, and he took let out a giant heaving sob. He was unraveling, and fast. Every second that he had to look at Beck’s blistered face was sending him into madness. He had to keep his head together. He had to keep his promise.

Okay.

Think, Parker. Think.

He reached to his thigh, fumbling with his holster until his shaking hands found his knife. If this worked for a human, it would work for a vampire, right? Peter wrapped his hand around the blade and squeezed, tugging it from his fist to slice open his palm. It hurt like hell, but the results were instant, blood dripping down against Beck’s lips.

“Will this help?” Peter asked and squeezed his palm in the same way Beck had treated the wound on his wrist weeks ago. “I mean, it probably won’t hurt. There you go.”

The look in Beck’s eyes sharpened instantly and he reached, snatching up Peter’s forearm in a death grip, pulling his bleeding palm down to his mouth. He tried, desperately, not to gag when Beck dragged his tongue down the middle of the cut.1

“Easy,” Peter hissed, “that kinda hurts.”

Which, to be fair, was kind of a shitty thing to say. Beck was still sizzling like bacon in the aftermath of the attack. His little scratch probably didn’t compare.

He licked at Peter like a madman, each movement becoming more and more aggressive until Beck was growling against him, fangs dragging along the tender skin of his palm. It seemed Beck’s lucidity had mostly returned, even if the cosmetic damage remained. Peter watched as Beck curled his tongue between the webbing of his fingers, a lewd grin tugging at the corner of his red, blood-stained mouth.

Peter snatched his hand back, face burning. “I think that’s enough.”

“And I think you owe me a little more than that, sweetheart,” Beck said. His voiced sounded about as rough as he looked, but god, was Peter glad to hear it.

“What? I just saved your ass!”

Beck sat up, touched his cheek, and grimaced. “Shit.”

“Yeah, you got burned pretty bad,” Peter said apologetically, putting a hand on Beck’s wrist, guiding his fingers away from his face. It was still pretty difficult to look at him, the least he could do was spare Beck the horror of feeling up his own disfigured face. “It’ll heal, right? Do you— do you actually need more?”

Better question. Was he willing to give it?

“I just need some rest,” Beck said with a sigh like it severely pained him to turn down an opportunity to trick Peter into giving up more of his blood. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I’ll crawl in a hole and come out good as new.”

He tried to pass it off a joke, but Peter heard it— the insecurity in his voice. And it broke something inside him, something he’d been very careful to keep intact. Slowly, Peter raised Beck’s hand to his lips, hesitating only slightly before pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“Pete,” Beck said, tugging his hand back. “You don’t have to flatter me.”

“I’m not—” Peter swallowed. Shit. Why had he done that? That was weird. “Look, what do we need to do?”

“You need to bury me.”

Peter blinked. “I’m sorry. _Bury you?_”

“Do you want to help, or not?” Beck said flatly. He looked around, gaze finally settling somewhere over Peter’s shoulder, and let out a triumphant noise. Peter turned to see a shovel propped against a pile of old machinery and tractor parts. “A shallow grave will do.”

“And I’m supposed to dig it?” Peter asked, immediately sighing. “Okay, fine. It’s the least I can do.”

“The very least,” Beck agreed, grinning when Peter shot him a _look. _“What?”

Oh, so, he was going to be a nightmare. Great.

Still, Peter couldn’t help the way his stomach flipped. At least he was feeling good enough to tease him, and that was much better than the alternative— even if he looked like the unmasked Phantom.

“Yeah, yeah. On it.”

Digging the hole was no easy task. He’d been instructed to make it shallow, but Beck was still a big guy and the barn was hot and humid and by the time he was finished, Peter had stripped off the jacket to his stealth suit and successfully covered his once-white undershirt in sweat and dirt.

And Beck seemed more than happy to lay back and watch Peter put in the hard work, occasionally commenting on his excellent, _practiced_ grave-digging skills.

(Not that his snide tone made Peter think they were meant to be taken any way but sarcastic.)

It wasn’t like he could complain though. Beck probably didn’t _want_ to burrow in the ground like a mole and it was kinda, mostly— okay, _completely_— Peter’s fault to begin with. He probably hadn’t wanted to be caught on fire either.

But did he have to be such a dick about it?

Peter slammed the shovel blade into the ground, finally satisfied with his knee-deep hole. It probably wasn’t long enough, but oh well. Beck could just curl up in the fetal position if he had to. Because Peter’s patience and sympathy had waned drastically with every— _“Peter, you have to really put your back into it,” _and, _“I had no idea someone so skinny could be so strong.”_

“There,” he grumbled, stepping out of the pit, presenting it like it was a state-of-the-art memory foam mattress. “Now get in.”

Beck crawled in, and Peter noticed with some relief that his face was already starting to heal up, closer to a really bad sunburn than a disfigured monster. At this rate, he’d pop out of the ground fresher than a daisy by nightfall.

“Couldn’t give a guy some leg room?” Beck complained. “Jesus, Pete—”

Peter shut up his griping with a healthy pile of dirt and Beck sputtered to spit it out. “I’m burying you now, so keep your mouth closed.”

He shoveled another heaping pile, and another, and another, each one snuffing out Beck’s protests.

Burying Beck proved to be crazy satisfying, right up until he was no longer visible and Peter, for some reason, couldn’t remember the satisfaction at all.

He only remembered Beck falling into him. Beck burning. Beck wheezing and relying on him, trusting him, to get him to safety.

And he remembered the feeling of being so scared to lose him, because— oh, god. He had almost lost him.

Peter sat down cross-legged, running his fingers through the loose dirt. It was weird to think that Beck was underneath him, just lying there like a corpse. Though, he supposed Beck _was_ a corpse, to begin with— which was even weirder to think about. There was still so much he didn’t understand, and a part of him that was still afraid to learn.

What if he had made a mistake?

What if they weren’t the enemy— Beck wasn’t his enemy, was he? He’d let those vampires burn out in the sun without a second thought, but the moment that Beck was in danger…

No, Beck was different—and Beck, he had _saved_ Peter. Now they were even. He owed him a solid, and if he hadn’t? Well, he would have let him die just like the rest.

God, he was a shit liar. Even to himself.

“Hey,” Peter spoke softly to the ground. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Not that he honestly expected a muffled response.

“Look, I never thanked you for saving my life. I thought that you were just doing it to get something out of me. A favor, something. I don’t know, I guess I get it now…why you saved me.” Peter tapped at the ground, where he imagined Beck’s head rested. “Yeah, I get it.”

Or, he thought he did. He _hoped_ he did.

“I wasn’t thinking about that night when I saw you,” Peter continued, “I didn’t save you because I thought I owed it. I just—I did it because I really, _really_ didn’t want you to die.”

He laid down on the dirt, stretching beside the fresh grave, staring at the dilapidated barn roof, hands folded neatly on his chest while he spilled his guts to Beck like he was an underground therapist. The conversation quickly morphed from their complicated relationship to the strained one with his aunt, to what he _thought_ he’d be doing at twenty-two, compared to what he _was_ doing. To the last time he’d tried to date, to his last hook-up, and—

Yeah. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to see a real therapist. But what was he supposed to say?

_Hi, I’m Peter Parker, I kill vampires and also, maybe I’m in love with one._

Wait.

Peter groaned, cradling his face in his hands. Holy shit, his life was seriously just a bad parody of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

(Though, Beck would probably argue that Buffy was the bad parody, not him.)

Still, _did_ Peter love him? The guy was practically insufferable. He was loud, and sleazy, and dressed like a Prohibition-era crime lord. He drove Peter absolutely up the wall most nights. And Peter was pretty sure that most of his hits were just the unlucky vampires that managed to mildly inconvenience Beck, but he never asked questions.

Yeah. He was kinda the worst.

But he was also kinda the best, and that list, Peter found, was a lot longer. But that didn’t mean he loved him though, right? They were just unlikely allies. Like on America’s Funniest Videos when a tiger befriends a puppy.

Plus, Beck was _all_ talk— sure, he flirted with Peter, but that was only to rile him up, and it wasn’t exclusive. He had been the unfortunate witness to many of Beck’s escapades. It was just last month that he’d been forced to sit, blushing, through an entire negotiation while some pretty, doe-eyed thing settled on Beck’s lap. A position that Peter vividly remembered being in himself, almost a year prior.

A position that he’d never returned to because, as Beck so kindly put it, _he didn’t mix business with pleasure._

It wasn’t like he wanted to be in that position.

It wasn’t like he thought about it constantly.

It wasn’t like he got off to the memory of Beck’s mouth on his skin on more than one shameful occasion— and then a couple of _shameless_ ones.

_Shit._

A hand popped out of the dirt, startling Peter right out of his rapidly approaching mental breakdown. Was it already dark? A glance at his watch showed a little past seven. Huh.

Peter stood, straddling the grave, and grasped the hand that clawed at nothing. He tugged with all his upper body strength—which was a lot, thank you very much—and pulled a very dirty, very agitated Beck from the ground.

“My back is going to be hurting for weeks,” Beck complained, standing to his full height, wiping the dirt from his singed suit. He looked at Peter and gave a pause. “What? Is my face still—”

Peter wrapped his arms around Beck’s torso, burying his face against his chest, breathing in dirt and ash.

“Oh,” Beck said quietly and brought tentative hands to Peter’s shoulder blades, his fingers tightening in the fabric. “Okay.”

Peter tilted his head up, so close to Beck’s mouth that he felt the rough scrape of beard against his forehead. Holy shit. The dirt nap had worked—maybe a little of his blood too, but Beck looked back to normal, if not a little tired around the edges.

“Do you need to feed?” Peter asked and because he couldn’t let Beck catch on to his genuine affection— “You kinda look like shit.”

“Thanks, kid,” Beck said flatly, then his eyes dropped down to Peter’s lips— and then to his neck. The barest hint of fang poked from his lips; his pupils dilated. Hunger practically rolled off him. “But no, I’m good. You think if we leave now that we can make it back by daylight?”

Peter blinked, taken back. That hadn’t been the answer he was expecting. He was standing there offering up what Beck used to want so badly, only to be rejected? Ouch.

“Oh, I—yeah, I think so. I drive fast.”

“Do you?” Beck raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, gave Peter a knock on his chin. “I knew you were dangerous, sweetheart.”

“Shut up,” Peter mumbled. “Let’s go.”

Before he could pull away, retreat somewhere safe and distant, Beck pulled him back into another tight embrace. Peter swore he felt the brush of lips on his hairline. He swore he felt the false beat of Beck’s heart.

“Yeah,” Beck said against the crown of his head. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me some trouble. :') It was edited very quickly because I was very tired of looking at it. So, my apologies if there are some horrendous errors!!
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated & please feel free to scream about Beck and Peter at me on twitter: shineonloki1


	5. date night

Oh. He _hated_ Beck.

“Why are we doing this again?” Peter asked, tugging at the too-tight collar of his turtleneck.

“Because you owe me a favor,” Beck said easily, glancing over from the driver’s seat to give Peter a patronizing smile. “In case you’ve forgotten, you nearly killed me.”

Okay. That was fair. But it wasn’t like Peter _could_ forget— Beck’s blistered face, the fear that he hadn’t been successful in saving him, waiting for him to hatch out of the ground like a weird egg— all of those memories had made their way into his more recent nightmares at least once.

“Whose fault is that?” Peter asked defiantly, propping a boot on the dashboard and rolling his eyes when Beck swatted at this thigh. “I mean, you shouldn’t have even been there. So, you know, it’s not _mine_.”

Rather than answering, the volume on the radio was turned up and Sinatra blared through the speakers. One of these days, Peter was going to give Beck’s music library a serious upgrade— but, until then, he burrowed in the passenger seat with crossed arms and listened to a smooth voice that filled the silence Beck refused to.

It wasn’t like he needed an answer. Beck had told him exactly why he had been at the nest and, surprise, that had been Peter’s fault too. The vampires that Peter was assigned to kill had gotten wind he was coming, and Beck arrived early for back-up. And could Peter be to blame for wrongfully assuming that all his unheard voicemails were from debt collectors? Vampire hunting didn’t exactly pay the bills. Not his fault.

But that didn’t stop him from feeling like shit when he trudged home after the incident, right before the break of dawn, and heard Beck’s message on the machine:

_“Hey, sweetheart. There may be a minor bump in that case. I’m going to head out and meet you. Don’t worry, they’re friends—well, you know what I mean. I can play pretend until you get there. See you soon.”_

If he had listened just twenty-four hours prior, maybe Peter wouldn’t have gone and lit him up like the Fourth of July and, in the process, realized that maybe he felt more than just lustful animosity.

Beck drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, bobbing his head lightly with the upbeat melody of brass. The music was too loud, but Peter knew he was humming along in that low baritone voice of his. He’d heard it before, on nights when he crashed on the couch in Beck’s office because his studio apartment was too noisy to sleep, and Beck pretended to be annoyed by it while he read over ledgers and documents, a record playing softly in the background that he hummed along to. Peter would watch him when he wasn’t looking, always fascinated. That never changed.

A car passed, headlights shining in, illuminating Beck’s profile with a soft, fleeting glow. Peter’s heart stopped. God, did he have to be so handsome?

_“And even when I'm old and gray,”_ Sinatra sang through the radio, _“I'm gonna feel the way I do, today.”_

Peter turned the music off with a slap of the knob. Nope, no way. He was _not_ going to let the Sultan of Swoon provide a soundtrack to his hopelessly romantic thoughts like he was the lead in a bad rom-com.

“Hey—”

“You didn’t answer me,” Peter said. “This seems kinda pointless. Why don’t I just roll in and kill him?”

“Sometimes things are more complicated than a quick stabbing, Pete,” Beck answered with a sigh. “But, to your point, I need to know why Toomes thinks he can swoop into my territory. Information first. Kill later.”

“Fine.” Peter squirmed in his seat, once again adjusting his turtleneck collar. He hated this thing, absolutely suffocating. But it had been Beck’s idea, so it wouldn’t look suspicious when his neck wasn’t scarred up like it’d been put through a meatgrinder. And that was because— “Did I _have_ to come as your dinner date?”

Beck laughed, sparing Peter a charming grin. “Well, you’re more like dinner.”

“That’s not funny,” Peter mumbled.

“It’s a _little_ funny— C’mon, Pete, don’t look at me like that. I’m joking.”

Yeah, Peter thought, that was the problem.

But he couldn’t tell Beck that. What was he supposed to do? Tell Beck to pull over the car? Strip this stupid sweater off? Beg Beck to bite him— lick him, suck him? All of the above? Great. Now the car was suddenly ten degrees hotter and Peter’s face was on fire.

He discreetly crossed his legs. “Are we almost there?”

Beck gave him a _look_ and whipped the car to the left, coming to a stop in front of a wrought-iron gate. It all looked so cliché— lines of twisted, gnarled trees, a winding uphill driveway that led to a large estate. Peter couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes as Beck leaned out the window, punching in a code to allow them access.

“I know,” Beck sighed. “It’s a lot.”

“That might be a bit of an understatement. I feel like Dracula is going to meet us at the door.”

“You aren’t far off. Toomes is,” Beck pursed his lips, searching for the right words, “well, he’s pretty old world.”

Peter knew what that meant. “That’s a polite way of saying he doesn’t like humans.”

“You’re too smart for your own good, sweetheart.”

Peter blushed, which was stupid. How many times had he been called that particular endearment? It was basically his second name. “Probably shouldn’t call me sweetheart then.”

“I call everyone sweetheart.” Peter frowned and Beck cleared his throat, pulling up to a detached garage and cutting the engine. “Alright, some ground rules.”

Peter answered with a defeated sigh. Something told him he wasn’t going to like this.

“First, humans are expected to behave in a certain way. Now, normally you’d be under a glamour but—”

“It doesn’t work on me,” Peter said proudly, and not without a smug grin. Beck narrowed his eyes. “Okay, sorry, go on.”

“So, I need you to act appropriately. Just do what I say and don’t speak unless spoken to. Got it?”

“Wow, this really is old world, huh?” Peter blinked owlishly, face full of fake innocence. “Gee, Mister, I didn’t know vampires could time travel back to 1950—”

“Peter,” Beck warned but it was hard to take him seriously when his steely demeanor was cracking with stifled laughter. “Stop it.”

“What?” Peter bit his lip, keeping up the act, just so desperate to make Beck laugh that he almost forgot they were sitting in the driveway of a dangerous, ancient creature. “You don’t want me to be your little housewife?”

Beck tensed, eyes going wide. His throat bobbed on a hard swallow and an uncomfortably awkward haze settled in the car.

Nope. Wrong. Error.

Parker, _what the fuck?_

Silence followed. Shit. Was Beck quiet because he was weirded out, or was he also visualizing Peter in an apron bent over those nice counters in his industrial kitchen?

He opened his mouth to apologize at the same time Beck said— “We should get going.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

Perfect. Anything to get him out of this car and away from the fact he’d just asked Beck if he wanted him to be his _housewife?_ Peter tried to tell himself that he’d said worse—because he had. Sometimes their teasing skirted that line separating joke from suggestion, but that was all before he’d realized that he really did _want _Beck.

So, so bad.

“You okay there, kiddo?” Beck asked, walking around the car to meet Peter, who stood, shivering, frozen like a deer in headlights. His lips pulled into a concerned frown, putting a hand on each of Peter’s shoulders and rubbing to get some friction, gathering heat. “You aren’t nervous, are you?”

“What? No, I’m fine,” Peter said quietly. “That feels nice.”

He let his eyes fall shut, melting into the impossible warmth Beck seemed to radiate. It would be perfectly fine with him if those big, broad hands never left his body. He let out the tiniest noise— not a _moan_, more like a hum— but when Peter opened his eyes, Beck was staring at his mouth.

Oh. Were they—? Were they having a moment?

Beck curled his fingers around the back of his neck and pulled him forward until his cheek was flush with a solid chest. Peter breathed him in, drawing his hands up Beck’s back to tightly grip his shoulders. He was so close. Maybe, if he just looked up—

“Peter, I—”

“Quentin!”

They sprang ten feet apart, Peter _nearly_ tripping over his own feet and landing on his ass. Thank god for trained assassin skills. They always saved the day. Unlike Beck who had unhanded him faster than a hot potato.

“Toomes!” Beck said in a tone that could only be described as jolly. He held his arms out, turning away from Peter without a second glance. “It’s been a while.”

Asshole.

Peter watched as the two shared the world’s weirdest hug. Seriously, was this night going to be one giant suffering of secondhand embarrassment? Probably so. Especially if the first five minutes were any indicator. He sighed, tuning them both out, acting as the obedient puppy, and followed them inside.

Well, at least the interior wasn’t as drab at the outside suggested. It actually looked pretty nice. Expensive. Kinda a shame it would all go to waste when he staked the bastard. What happened to a vampire’s estate after they were gone? He’d never really thought about it before. Toomes probably didn’t have a human beneficiary. If this was all free game, that vase would look good in Beck’s study— maybe he would just snatch it on the way out.

“Is your human always that spacey?” Peter’s head snapped up and Toomes frowned at him.

“Yeah. He’s all looks, I’m afraid,” Beck said, sounding disappointed. He tapped Peter’s forehead with the back of his knuckle, and it took every fiber of his being not to break character. “The cute ones never have much going on up here.”

_Watch it._

“Easier to glamour, I’d imagine,” Toomes agreed, nodding sagely. He stared right through Peter, and even though Peter was dressed in layers to fight the outside cold, he felt oddly exposed. The gears were turning in Toomes head, that much was sure.

Beck laughed. “Sometimes I don’t feel like I have to glamour him at all!”

God, he was a lot of things, but an actor? Beck was not. Cut the fucking schtick.

“Right,” Toomes said slowly, eyes slowly tearing away from Peter. A large, toothy smile spread on his face. “Let’s take this to the dining room.”

The moment Toomes turned to lead them down the hallway, Peter elbowed Beck hard in the side. Beck didn’t even protest, he probably knew he deserved it for laying it on so thick, but he did smile slowly, privately, like he was proud of himself. He touched the small of Peter’s back, and Peter felt the apology.

“Usually my guests don’t bring their own food,” Toomes was saying. He took the chair at the head of the table and gestured for them to sit. “Should I be insulted?”

“Not at all,” Beck said with an easy smile, sitting closest to their host. “Sometimes you just acquire a taste, you know how it is.”

Peter stalled briefly. Was he supposed to sit at the table with them? Or—he didn’t know. Toomes seemed like the kind of guy who would rather Peter sit at their feet like an animal. Beck looked at him, eyes wide and pleading, and holy shit. That really didn’t help him any.

“Tell him to sit, Quentin.”

Beck pulled out the chair next to him. Thank god. “Have a seat, sweetheart,” he said, and Peter had the feeling that he meant it to come out far more condescending than it sounded.

Toomes was watching them closely, and alarm signals were firing like missiles through Peter’s nervous system. He sat, careful to keep his face blank, remembering that he was supposed to be under a glamour.

“I forget how sentimental younglings can be,” Toomes said, turning his attention, thankfully, back to Beck. He waved a flippant hand in Peter’s direction. “You still cling to the traces of your human life and end up with these pets.”

_Youngling? _

Peter looked at Beck, permanently in his late thirties, and frowned. Was Beck considered _young_ in his community? That explained the ego inflation every time Peter called him “old man”.

“It isn’t like that,” Beck insisted, “Peter is just convenient.”

Ouch.

“Yet, you call it by name.” Toomes gave a knowing grin. God, how could someone dressed like a dad about to go on a golf excursion look so fucking terrifying? “Don’t worry. That’s not why you’re here.”

Peter breathed a small sigh of relief, thankful to get on with the meat of this dinner. The quicker they got to the point, the quicker Peter could stake his ass and they could hit the road. He’d never seen Beck so tense and nervous. It was almost like—

“Why _am_ I here? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Oh. All the illusions of niceties dropped, and the real dynamic between the two settled.

Toomes had _power_ over Beck.

“You know, I always thought it was strange that you were given such a large territory in New York,” he explained and with a pleasantry that dripped with insincerity. Toomes laughed lightly. “You always had a reputation for being a bit unstable.”

Beneath the table, Beck clenched his fist and Peter had to resist the urge to reach out.

“I assure you; my territory is thriving—”

“Cut the bullshit, Quentin,” Toomes hissed. “Do you know how high your fatality rates are? Vampires are actively _fleeing_ your control.”

“You act like New York City is safe for everyone. Even human—”

“We aren’t human. It takes more than a mugging gone awry to kill us. You have a hunter problem and,” Toomes sat back in his chair, laughing humorlessly, “I’m going to be honest. I don’t think you’re equipped to handle it.”

Peter froze. Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

Beck, for a fleeting second, looked at him— and Toomes caught it.

“With all due respect,” Beck started, “I—”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

Peter watched Beck blink rapidly, clearly taken back. “What?”

Oh, this wasn’t good. They had their reason, right? Didn’t that mean it was stab time? Peter started to reach for the stake lodged in the side of his boot, but Beck stopped him with a gentle hand on his knee.

“Drink from him,” Toomes instructed, pointing directly at Peter. “Go on.”

Oh, yeah. Toomes knew. He fucking _knew_.

Beck looked at him warily. There was a reason he’d stopped Peter from retrieving his weapon. He just had to trust him, and if that meant they kept up this poorly realized charade a little longer, well…

Peter nodded slightly, just enough for Beck to see, giving him permission for whatever it was he needed to do. Feed off him, whatever. It was fine. Beck had drunk his blood before but never— _never_ from a bite. It had always been secondhand cuts or scrapes.

And maybe this wasn’t how Peter pictured their first time, but his heart still raced when Beck grabbed his arm and pushed up his sleeve, running his fingers along the soft flesh of his inner wrist. His head still went dizzy when Beck brought it to his open mouth, fangs on full display.

Peter closed his eyes and braced himself.

“Wrist?” Toomes asked, breaking the spell. “I thought you were a thigh man.”

Beck didn’t even turn, he just looked at Peter with abject horror. Oh. If that…if that would salvage their rapidly failing co-op mission, well, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt. Peter kept Beck’s attention, trying desperately to relay a telepathic message saying that it was alright. 

Probably best just to show him.

Peter stood, chair scraping unusually loud against the hardwood, and unbuttoned his pants before he lost his nerve. Beck stared as his fingers worked the zipper, as he dropped his jeans to his ankles and propped his ass on the edge of the table. He wasn’t even sure that his heart was beating, all the blood had rushed to his head to moment Beck’s gaze dropped between his legs and that pink tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“Dumb, but obedient,” Toomes commented. “I see why you like him.”

“He’s rare,” Beck mumbled, but he wasn’t paying attention to Toomes at all. His eyes were laser-focused on the inside of Peter’s thigh and he slipped from the chair onto his knees, placing tentative hands on each of Peter’s calves, keeping him spread wide enough to wiggle between them.

Peter couldn’t be bothered to be annoyed either, not when Beck placed a wet, sucking kiss to his sensitive skin. No teeth. Not yet. Peter’s knuckles went white where they gripped the edge of the table and he sucked in a breath.

Beck looked up, met Peter’s eyes, and the angle was just enough that it hid when he mouthed an apology against his thigh. Peter read his lips for a silent instruction— _“Pretend you like it.”_

Then Beck bit down.

“Oh my god,” Peter gasped, chest heaving. He instinctively grabbed a handful of Beck’s hair. “Oh, holy shit—”

Fuck, he didn’t care if Toomes lurked in the background of this moment. Peter was too busy having a life-altering revelation.

He didn’t _have_ to pretend.

Beck moaned around him, eyes rolling back before fluttering shut. Blood pooled around his mouth, trickling down Peter’s leg. His head went light and dizzy and Beck brought his hands to squeeze at his hips, edging in closer, mouth working at the puncture he’d created. His tongue and teeth alternating between sucking and kissing.

Peter bit down on his lip and whimpered.

How did this feel so good?

And how the hell was he already so hard? How did he even have blood left to spare for an erection? But there was no mistaking the tent in his briefs. He saw it. Beck saw it. Toomes probably saw it.

“I think he likes it,” Toomes crooned. Scratch that— he _definitely_ saw it. “Have you been neglecting him, Quentin? Look, he’s practically gagging for you.”

“Please,” Peter whispered, ignoring the patronizing taunts coming from his left. He tightened his grasp on Beck’s hair. “Don’t stop.”

“See?” Toomes continued, and there was something accusatory in his tone. “He’s acting like it’s his first time.”

Beck stopped just for a moment, eyes flicking open to find Peter. He drew away slowly, licking a drop of blood that lay dangerously close to the hem of his underwear. Holy shit. Peter was about five seconds away from throwing all caution to the wind and just begging Beck to suck him off, audience or not— but then felt a hand on his ankle, fingers creeping down the side of his boot.

Oh.

Peter moaned, loud and hopefully not too fake— probably not fake at all, if he were being honest, the sight of Beck’s bloody mouth so close to his cock was still doing something funny to his brain. Whatever. As long as it was enough to distract Toomes. He reached down inconspicuously, and Beck slid the stake from its hiding place, passing it off while a coy smile curled on his lips.

He leaned back on his haunches, watching Peter with heavy-lidded, lust-blown eyes. “Have at it, sweetheart.”

That was all the permission needed. Peter turned, lunging across the table, and poor Toomes— he didn’t know what hit him. That was until his eyes dropped to the wooden stake lodged directly in his chest. Black blood bubbled out of his mouth and he croaked out a hoarse scream.

The thing about the _really_ old vampires, Peter remembered, was that they never died clean.

And there was nothing more boner-killing than being sprayed with chunks of thousand-year-old flesh. His ’s triumph was short-lived, he hoped off the table, struggling to pull up his pants while also struggling not to gag.

“I forgot they did that,” Peter mumbled. He brushed off a glob of—oh god, was that brain? “This is disgusting.”

“You’re the one that wanted to stake him,” Beck retorted, stepping over what might have been a finger. “I warned you that he was old.”

“The one in the alley—”

“Toomes was older.”

Oh. Peter swallowed, turning to Beck with a small frown. “We’re probably in trouble, aren’t we?”

“Probably.” Beck smiled, despite the gravity of their situation sinking in around them. He stepped forward, into Peter’s space, and placed a strangely gentle hand on his cheek, thumbing away a smear of blood that, more than likely, wasn’t his. “Gotta say, it was worth it.”

“Yeah?” Peter asked breathlessly, rocking forward on his heels. Closer.

_Closer._

Beck pulled away. “We should probably get out of here. It’s a bit of drive and we don’t want to be stuck here.”

“Oh,” Peter said weakly, visibly deflating. “Okay.”

He followed Beck on autopilot, head completely blank, except for the single-minded focus he had on the pain that throbbed through his leg. He wasn’t delusional, was he? Beck had to have felt it too. Every stupid string that tied them together? That bite had amplified it.

Peter knew it. Beck knew it.

Maybe that was why the car ride back to Queens was dead silent. His head was too full to talk anyway. There were too many scenarios running through his mind, each bulldozing over the other until there was a dull ache between his eyes. What happened now? Was Beck going to be in danger? Was _he_ going to be in danger? Not that he didn’t exist in a constant state of peril.

And worst of all, did Beck know his secret? Was that why he white-knuckled the steering wheel and kept his eyes focused on the road?

Peter sunk into his seat thumped his head on the window, watching the city slowly pass by in vibrant lights and sounds. They’d be pulling up to his building in a moment and he’d have to face the rest of the night alone. He touched the inside of his thigh, pressing where Beck’s teeth had been not long before. His heart fluttered.

Or, maybe, he could ask Beck to come up. His apartment was super shitty, didn’t have any windows, he could keep it dark— feasibly they could…

Beck pulled up to the curb and put the car in park. His voice low and serious when he said, “Peter, listen”

Peter turned fully in his seat; eyes wide. “Yes?”

“About tonight—”

“It’s okay, really,” he rushed to assure him. Too eager. Tone it down. “It was— it was good.”

Beck’s eyes narrowed, head tilting funny. “I don’t want you to think I planned that.”

“Oh, no. I mean, we were just doing what we had to. Right?” Peter winced.

“Right,” Beck said quietly. It was almost sad— regretful? He opened his mouth, but a horn blared in place of words.

Then another.

“I should probably go,” Peter sighed, reaching for the handle, moving way too slow. Giving Beck ample time to stop him.

“One more thing.”

His heart stopped. “Yeah?”

Beck leaned across the console, and Peter closed his eyes. Oh god, it was happening. The count was nearly twice now. He had been so sure Beck was going to kiss him outside of Toomes’ house. Then, again in the dining room. And now—

Peter felt fingers in his hair, but not lips on his mouth. He opened his eyes, blinking, and Beck smiled, flicking something off his fingers.

“Sorry, kiddo. You had a bit of Toomes in your hair.”

His entire body went up in flames. If it were possible to die from embarrassment, well, Beck would shortly be attending his funeral. Peter scrambled blindly at the door, trying to find the handle as quick as possible. Beck was watching him— god, why was Beck watching him? Was this some sort of performance anxiety? Stop it.

“Well,” Peter yelped, finally freeing himself from the confines of the car and the heavy cloud of mortification. “Bye!”

He slammed the door before Beck could say a word. Thank god for tinted windows. It was for the best that he didn’t see the look of pity was surely on Beck’s face. Poor Peter, with his ill-advised crush.

How had he let this happen? Normally his senses were on point. He could pick up signals and read the room like a champion and yet when it came to Beck— always when it came to Beck— he was hopeless.

He’d been so sure.

He'd thought—

Peter watched as Beck peeled away, not bothering to make the three flight climb to his shitty studio until long after the taillights had disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said this was going to be posted in completion by October 18th? Well, I got a little bit behind. :') Definitely by this weekend, if not tomorrow. Thank you all for your support so far! It's so nice to see you're enjoying it. We are so close to the end and these two finally getting their shit together.
> 
> Also, let it be known that I love Adrian Toomes, but he had to go...and the visual of vampire Michael Keaton was too much for me to pass up. Do you know how hard it was to _not_ make a Vulture reference?
> 
> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Thank you all for reading. <3
> 
> Scream with me on twitter: @shineonloki1


	6. at last

“Where is he?”

A couple of Beck’s henchmen—groupies, employees, _whatever_— traded nervous looks. Typically, Peter would say they had nothing to fear; for the most part, he left Beck’s people alone. But he knew how he looked storming into the club, shoving his way past the bouncer and bursting his way through the VIP lounge. Manic.

He had, _officially_, had it.

“Peter, maybe you should come back another time,” a female vampire— Victoria, Peter remembered, said. “He’s busy.”

“I can wait,” said Peter stubbornly. He plopped down on the leather sofa, the same one that he’d first seen Beck on years ago. It always sparked a memory of big hands roaming up and down his body. Okay, probably shouldn’t get worked up so soon, not while Beck was MIA.

“It might be a while.”

“I can wait,” Peter repeated. He flagged down a server balancing a tray of drinks with a neatly manicured hand, gave a sweet smile in exchange for a— Peter sniffed the rim of the glass— gin and tonic. “Put it on Quentin’s tab, please.”

He downed the drink in one go and tried not to make a face in the process. He wasn’t a drinker, not really. Night was his primetime hunting hours and it didn’t suit him to be intoxicated on the job. And, well, day drinking was a slippery slope, but he figured if tonight were to be the night that he broke his own rules, maybe an alcohol-induced confidence boost wouldn’t hurt.

He could be patient.

Peter idly bounced his leg, hands between his knees, looking around the dim, red lounge. Victoria was still eyeing him warily, whispering behind her hand to some guy dressed like the vampire section at Party City threw up on him. A human, Peter decided. They were always the ones to show up in over-the-top cliché clubwear.

How long had it been? He looked at his watch.

Ah, right. Fifteen minutes.

“Hey— if you can just tell me where he’s at?” Peter shouted over the music. If Beck was at home or something well, Peter had the address. That would be ideal, in all honesty.

“Are you looking for Quentin?” Peter turned his head to a man, older and pale. Victoria shot him a look, so Peter was sure to nod and pay close attention. The guy jerked his head toward the privacy curtain near the wall. “Didn’t he just have one of you?”

_One of…?_

Peter’s face heated.

Oh. So, that was what Victoria meant by _busy_. Whatever. That was fine— and well, it wasn’t like they were a _thing_. Beck had only actually drunk from him once and yeah, he seemed pretty fucking into at the time but afterward— Peter still remembered the sting of rejection. The dawning realization that he had read everything wrong.

But then he’d marched upstairs and paced the floor until he damn near put a rut in the stained carpet and meticulously went over every moment that he had filed away in his _“Quentin Beck Feels the Same”_ folder. By dawn, he had come to the resounding conclusion that, yes. The data was there.

Beck cared about him too. Maybe he didn’t _love_ him— he still wasn’t entirely sure vampires were capable of that particular emotional capacity— but, in his own way, Beck cared. And, holy shit, that was good enough for Peter.

Peter brought himself back to the present, eyes fixed on the heavy curtain that seemed both impossibly close, and impossibly far. “Oh,” he said lightly, swallowing down the heavy lump in the back of his throat. “He must have double ordered.”

He vaguely heard someone try to stop him. Vaguely. Everything was kinda background static in comparison to the blood pounding in his head. And, really, this was Beck’s fault for having a curtain in place of a door. If he wanted privacy? Get a fucking lock like a normal person.

Peter pulled back the curtain like Norman Bates— sans knife and murderous intent.

(Well, maybe there was still a bit of murderous intent. That might always simmer under the surface.)

Beck raised his head, which happened to be positioned between the legs of some gasping brunette and wiped the blood from his chin. “Peter?”

Oh. He knew he should probably say something, anything, but his body refused to cooperate, mouth hanging slack as his eyes darted from Beck’s red teeth to the slight frame of a blissed-out, yet confused, man. At least they mostly still had their clothes on, save some naked thighs— or Peter might have expired on the spot.

Beck stood quickly, much to his meal’s dismay. “Peter, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” Peter asked, blinking himself out of his stupor. “I mean—I see that you’re, uh, having dinner. I just needed to,” he trailed off. What did he need to do? Right. “Tell you something.”

“Okay,” Beck licked his lips, coming to a still in front of him, hands finding Peter’s arms and squeezing. Not hard, but not exactly gentle. Desperate, almost, like he half-expected to find nothing but air. “But, why are you here? I told you to stay low.”

“You didn’t tell me anything.”

No, because Beck had sent a human lackey to his apartment in the middle of the day to relay the cryptic message that he needed to stay put for a couple of weeks. Cool it. Don’t take any hunts. _“Quentin will get in touch with you,”_ he had said and then eyed Peter up and down in a way that he couldn’t explain.

“Don’t be difficult, sweetheart,” Beck sighed, more fond than annoyed, lips curling into a catlike smile. Eyes soft like he was helpless but to be anything other than spellbound. Peter stared at that mouth, at those eyes, equally entranced. They could have been the only two people left in the universe. It sure felt like it.

Until it didn’t, and the guy that had been left cold on the bed coughed loud enough to shake them both.

“You should go,” Beck said, at the same time that a rough voice said— _“I’m leaving.”_

Peter waited for the guy to collect his things, and he felt bad—just a little. If a fella liked to be bitten by sadistic supernatural creatures, well, he supposed Beck wasn’t the _worst_ option. He’d probably be a little miffed too if someone interrupted him. Actually, he recalled a dozen or so close calls, where it seemed like they were on the verge of something more, only for fate to shove a hand between them. So, maybe he didn’t feel bad, but he _was_ sympathetic— and he tried to show it with a sincere and apologetic smile that was immediately snubbed with an eye-roll.

And then they were alone.

Again, he should probably say something.

“Sorry—if you weren’t full—or, I don’t know,” Peter swallowed, hyper-aware of Beck’s hands still on him. He’d had something eloquent planned, something romantic, but his brain pretty much fried itself the moment he stepped in the room. “If I interrupted something…?”

“Peter, why are you here?” Beck’s tone was low, commanding, and Peter had no choice but to meet his hard gaze. Gears were turning, but nothing was clicking.

_Didn’t he know?_

“Don’t you know?” Peter asked.

The fingers wrapped around his shoulders flexed, squeezed, and Beck’s pupils dilated. The tension was so thick and suffocating, Peter could cut it with a knife. Or, stab it with a stake—but he’d conveniently left all-of-the-above at home. Because, unlike the first time he found himself nose-to-nose with Beck in this very room, Peter wasn’t there to kill him.

And Beck _knew_ that, but still— he said nothing.

Jesus. Was he going to make him do _everything_ himself? Typical.

Peter fisted the front of Beck’s shirt, dragging him down, and any complaint or query was muffled with a hard press of Peter’s lips. It was chaste, quick and dry, and Peter pulled away to stare at the dumbfounded expression left hanging on Beck’s face.

“Are you sure about this?” Beck asked him. His hands moved to cup Peter’s face, thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones, holding their contact. He looked so goddamn worried, and for what? Did he not know that Peter had imagined this exact moment, thousands of times. “Because, if we do this. Peter, I don’t think—”

“Beck,” Peter cut him off, tugging on his collar again. “Please, just shut up.”

The levy broke. All bets were off.

This time they met somewhere in the middle, and neither held back. Peter opened up at the first touch of Beck’s tongue against his lips, and the tender hold on his cheek slipped around to become a tight grip on the back on his neck. Beck licked into Peter’s mouth like he was hungry— and oh, maybe he was. That thought left Peter a little dizzy, a little wanting.

He wanted those teeth on him, distantly remembering the feeling of breaking the skin on his thigh, the way Beck’s mouth had fit so perfectly around him. But first—

He pawed and tore at Beck’s shirt, buttons popping and scattering. Beck could be mad about it later; Peter had waited too damn long for this. He blindly ran his hands up his chest, through the coarse hair blanketing it, got a handful of pectoral and squeezed.

Peter broke the kiss, pulling away from chasing teeth. His eyes dropped to his hands, so small against Beck’s chest, even fully splayed. “How are you real?”

“Peter—” Beck let out a throaty groan. His eyes were wild, frantic, and Peter wasn’t illusioned enough to think he wasn’t teetering on the right edge of danger. “Tell me you want this.”

He didn’t even have to think.

“I want this,” Peter whispered, licking his lips and rocking back up to kiss the scruff of Beck’s jaw. “I’ve always wanted this— wanted _you_—”

And he was going to tell him just how long he had waited— all the way back to that night in 1995— but Beck growled against his cheek and turned, walking them back until the backs of Peter’s knees hit the bed. He collapsed on it, crawling back on the mattress to leave room for Beck to follow, slotting himself between Peter’s parted thighs. The sheer bulk of him forced his legs wider.

Oh, fuck. He was so _big_.

Beck’s hands gripped his hips tight, dragging him forward to press their bodies together and yeah—okay, he _was_ big. Everywhere. Peter felt every inch of his cock grinding down on him, between his legs, rubbing up against his own in frantic jerks. Beck moved like there wasn’t enough time to get their clothes off, like he was content to get Peter off just like that, in his pants like a teenager and oh, fuck, _fuck_. He might just let him. He might not even have a choice, because if Beck didn’t stop—

“Wait,” Peter whimpered, getting a hand between them and pushing. “Wait—I, I’m—”

And Beck _did_ stop dry humping him like a maniac, but it was only to replace his hips with his hand, palming Peter’s cock, which hard against the zipper of his pants. Oh, okay. Peter closed his eyes tight, biting down hard on his lip, back arching off right the bed. Kinda the opposite of what he was trying to achieve, the goal was _not_ to come in his underwear, but Beck was nosing right along his jaw breathing hard and—

“Come on, Pete. Let me hear you.”

Peter whined, and then gasped, and then made a pained noise he didn’t know he was even capable of, as he strained to look down to where Beck squeezed his cock, massaging him right through the denim. Shit.

Beck _wanted_ him to get off.

“Don’t stop.” Peter wrapped his arms around Beck’s neck and drawing him close, desperately mumbling against Beck’s mouth, telling him not to stop, over and over, and— _“Don’t you dare stop.” _

He came hard, shaking and clinging to Beck, hissing through his teeth, hips twitching up into a hand nearly twice as big as the bulge it squeezed. And—maybe he should feel embarrassed, but it was difficult to feel too self-conscious when Beck was looking down at him like _that_.

Like he had never seen anything more magnificent than a scrawny twenty-something who just saw stars from an over-the-pants handjob.

Okay, there it was. The insecurity.

“What?” Peter breathed out. “You started it.” To prove a moot point, he reached between Beck’s legs and got a handful for himself, and— “Oh, _oh my god._”

His poor spent cock gave an interested twitch. That was just unfair.

Beck leaned back down, sucking a bruising kiss just beneath Peter’s ear. “You think you can handle me, sweetheart? It’s not too late to back out.”

“Don’t—_ahhh_, shit— don’t get cocky.”

“Is that a no?” Beck asked, nipping again at his throat. Peter felt the smirk more than he heard it. “I can stop.”

Huh, Peter wasn’t so sure about that. Not with the way Beck bucked eagerly into his hand, how he groaned every time Peter’s fingers rubbed against the hard, rigid outline of his cock. Could he really stop if asked? It didn’t matter. Peter wasn’t about to test it. He tugged at the button, popping it loose, and unzipped Beck’s pants with a hard tug, leveling him with a challenge.

Not a no.

Not even close.

“I’ve _been_ handling you, haven’t I?” Not in the same context, but still. Peter got his hand beneath Beck’s waistband, wrapped his fist around his cock, warmer than the rest of his body— and yet, somehow, he was the one to gasp. “I want it.”

“Okay,” Beck growled, leaning back, letting Peter’s fingers slip away with a small huff. Hard to complain when that led to him stripping off the rest of his torn shirt—and Peter’s mouth watered at sight of solid muscles and a toned stomach. Then, Beck’s hands dropped to shove his pants, briefs and all, down his hip and—

Peter’s throat went dry. “Holy shit.”

“Easy, kiddo,” Beck teased, wrapping a hand around his cock, just as thick and impressive as the rest of him, giving himself an easy stroke. “You’re gonna let that get to my head.”

But the only thing that Peter heard was _head_ and then, the only thing that he could think after that was: _Good idea._

Peter wiggled to prop himself up on his elbows, looking up at Beck with pleading eyes. “Let me suck you off.”

Beck’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out a deep, throaty moan, and Peter watched as his hand slid down to squeeze the base of his cock. And look, Peter didn’t exactly consider himself a home-run-on-the-first-night type of guy— but he’d done his time. He’d done his _waiting_. He wanted the full menu, and if Beck didn’t let him at least _try_ to get that thing in his mouth he was going to scream.

(Well, hopefully, he’d end up screaming anyway.)

“Kid,” Beck warned, holding no real threat. He moved one of Peter’s legs, scooting out from his cage of spindly limbs and flopped over on his back, arms raised and hands behind his head. The picture of comfort.

Peter was going to wreck him. Or, die trying— which, looked like it might be a real possibility.

He slipped off the bed and did away with his jeans, paused and peeled off his underwear too, leaving himself exposed for Beck’s hungry gaze. Peter fretted before gathering up his resolve, determined not to crack. There was no way that he was going to be the only one fully undressed. He stood between Beck’s legs, grabbed ahold of his pants that lay bunched up only halfway down his ass, and pulled.

“There,” Peter sighed, trying not to get too distracted by those thick, tree trunk thighs. He sank to his knees. “C’mere.”

“Demanding,” Beck chastised, scooting to the edge of the bed, bracketing Peter with said thick, tree trunk thighs. His hard cock bobbed right there, taunting Peter, and Beck reached down, running a hand through Peter’s hair. “Okay, sweetheart. You can suck me— but not off.”

Okay, sure. Peter nodded, barely listening. He leaned in and gave an experimental lick up the underside, and the groan that earned him spurred Peter on, giving him the courage to close his lips around the leaking head. God, Beck tasted _amazing_, much better than his own fingers back when would shove them down his throat, picturing this exact scenario as a horny teenager.

“That’s it,” Beck purred. “That’s it, come on.”

Peter glanced up, mouth stretched around that stupidly large cock, and was unable to stop the muffled moan. The sight of Beck looking so goddamn debauched above him was too much. He pushed himself a little further, lips already stretched a little tight, and fuck— he wasn’t even halfway down and already he was gagging.

Above him, Beck started to babble. “Shit—_ahhh_, fuck— come on. Get me nice and wet.”

Not like Peter had much of a choice. He was stuffed to the brim. He choked, spit dribbling down the corners of his lips, down the hard ridges of Beck’s cock. He slicked it down with his palm, using his hand for what he couldn’t fit inside his mouth, which ended up being more than he cared to admit. Beck didn’t seem to mind though, groaning and mumbling encouragements.

Of course, Beck would be a talker, he never knew when to shut up. But his time Peter didn’t care. Every breathy exhale, every praise, they all went straight to his dick, already regaining interest.

_“Such a pretty mouth—”_

_“Just like that—”_

_“Look so good like this, Pete—_

And then— “God, I wanna fuck you so bad.”

Peter gagged, looking up with watery, tear-stung eyes. Wait— was he serious? Beck didn’t look like he was joking. To be honest, he looked so out of his head, Peter wasn’t sure he even realized he said it. But it lit a spark in his belly, made it flip.

“Do you want that, sweetheart?” Beck asked, his hand stopped tugging at Peter’s curls, switched to petting them back from his sweat-slick forehead. “You want me to fuck you?”

Peter pulled off with a wet pop, chest heaving. He probably looked like a lunatic, hair crazy from persistent fingers, eyes wide and red-rimmed, mouth swollen and raw. He couldn’t find it in himself to care. Not when Beck had just suggested the root of all his darkest fantasies.

“Yeah,” Peter gasped. He clambered up, settling himself on Beck’s thighs. All humility, modesty, went out the window. The only thing he was left viscerally aware of was the fact that he _needed_ Beck to fuck him. He leaned down, planting a sloppy kiss against Beck’s mouth to show him how much.

“Hold on, hold on,” Beck laughed breathlessly. His hands found Peter’s hips, holding him still. “What’s the rush? We have all night, kid.”

Oh. _All night._ Peter felt lightheaded.

“That’s a big promise,” he whispered, trying to muster his usual snark in the haze of dizzying lust. “You sure you’re up for it, _old man?”_

Beck gave a closed-lip huff of a laugh, and before Peter could make heads or tails of the situation, he was flipped on his back, Beck over him, leering down like a hungry wolf. He leaned in to graze sharp canines over Peter’s collar bone. “You talk a lotta smack for someone who just came their pants.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. Low blow, but he wasn’t one to back down. “Yeah? You seemed pretty eager to make me—” He wrapped a leg around Beck’s waist, pulling him closer until he felt the wet drag of Beck’s cock against the divot of his hip. “Almost like you thought about it before.”

Beck hummed, stretching his arm over to snatch a bottle of lube from the bedside drawer. Woah, alright. This really _was_ his fuck nest. Peter wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about that— but he couldn’t find it in himself to complain once Beck sat back between his spread legs and drizzled some on his fingers.

What a gentleman.

“And if I said I had?” Beck asked, nonchalant, almost conversationally, even as he reached between Peter’s legs and rubbed the slick pad of his finger against him. “Don’t tell me I was the only one.”

“You—_ahhh_, fuck, Beck—you weren’t.” Peter wiggled down, unable to take that teasing press much longer. “Come on, do it.”

“What did I tell you?” Beck smiled, breeching him in one swift push that had Peter gasping and arching right off the mattress. “Patience.”

Funny, coming from him. Peter saw how undone he was, how together he was trying to keep it, but Beck was just desperate as him— and now his finger worked its way inside, stretching Peter open and all he had it in him to do was bite down on his lip and fist the sheets.

One finger became two, became three, and by then, he was fully hard again, leaking against his stomach.

Beck’s fingers were nothing to scoff at, the burn had all but subsided, but Peter’s eyes kept falling to his cock. Even with all the careful prep that Beck was putting it, it was going to be a tight fit. But that was fine. He wanted it. Oh god, he wanted every single inch stuffed in him—

“Jesus, kid,” Beck choked out, eye wide. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Oh. Was he talking out loud?

“Not at the moment,” Peter mumbled, reaching to tug helplessly at Beck’s arm. “Might if you don’t get on with it.”

Beck’s eyes went soft, right before he withdrew his hand slicked himself up. Peter spread his legs a little more, canting his hips upward, eyes nearly going crossed trying to watch Beck line himself up. Okay, it was finally happening. He knew he said he was ready but—_but_—

“Oh my god,” Peter whined, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto. Beck pushed slow, one hand pressing down on Peter’s hip to keep him down and still, to stop him from hurting himself and grinding down like he wanted to, even with the burn.

This wasn’t his first rodeo, but _holy shit_.

“There you go, sweetheart, easy,” Beck murmured, sliding in inch by inch. “How’s that feel?”

“Good,” Peter hiccupped. He felt so full he could cry. Or, shit, maybe he was crying. He wiped at his cheek, hand coming away wet. God, no, don’t cry. The last thing he needed was Beck thinking he was fragile. “I’m good. I’m not gonna break.”

Maybe Beck believed him or, maybe he didn’t. The point was, he took his word and nodded, manhandled Peter’s legs until they were draped over his shoulders and slowly drew back.

Peter held his breath.

The first snap of Beck’s hips had his fist flying to his mouth, biting down on his knuckle. The second went easier, and the one after that felt even better. Every throaty growl that rumbled from Beck had an echo of a desperate, needy whimper. Beck knew what he was doing, probably had decades of practice on him, he moved between Peter’s legs like he was made to. Bearing down, bending him in half.

It was so much— too much— and, at the same time, Peter needed _more_.

And he _knew_ that Beck was holding back. Peter could see the way his lips trembled around his fangs. Could see how his heavy gaze was focused on the thump of Peter’s heart pulsing through his neck.

He wanted to bite.

Peter craned his head to the side, exposing the long column of his unmarred neck—he knew Beck could smell it. The blood. The sweat. The desire. It was all but rolling off them both. He reached up, tangling his fingers in Beck’s hair, tugging him down.

“I want you too,” Peter whispered. He could sense the hesitation.

Beck placed a kiss on his throat. “It’s going to hurt.”

Was _that_ what he was worried about? Did he not realize that Peter was currently split in two by his cock? That nothing, _nothing_, was going to ruin this high— especially not those clever teeth piercing him?

“I don’t care,” Peter said around a breathy moan. “I don’t _care_. I can take it. Please, Beck—”

Beck’s sharp bite broke the skin. Peter hissed, cradling the back of Beck’s head to keep him there, just in case he tried to pull away, just in case the noises he made landed more on the side of pain than pleasure. It did hurt. Worse than his thigh had been. Worse than the self-inflicted cut on his palm.

But, oh, it felt good too.

Peter moaned, slipping a hand down Beck’s back to palm at his ass where he still worked hard between his thighs. He urged him deeper. Harder. Because _that _combined with Beck sucking, kissing, and licking his neck? The mess of blood trickling down to pool along his clavicle? It was going to do him in.

“I’m gonna—_mmm_,” Peter whine. “Oh shit, Beck, I—”

Beck lifted, got a hand between them, stroking fast and hard at Peter’s cock. And, oh— Beck looked monstrous, eyes blown black and mouth messy and red. A raw power pulsed from him, terrifying and unbridled.

Peter had never seen anything hotter in his life.

“You’re gonna what?” Beck asked, husky in his ear. His hips never stopped working, never stopped hitting that place inside that had Peter gasping for breath. Peter was at the mercy of his hips and his hands, and with every jerk and thrust the coil in his gut grew tighter and tighter. Then Beck licked the shell of his ear, nibbled the lobe with his blunt teeth and whispered— “Are you gonna come for me?”

For the second time that night, Peter came with a cry— this time all over their stomachs, and all over Beck’s hand as he squeezed, rubbing his thumb against the frenulum, fucking Peter through it all until he was boneless and pliant, melting against the sheets. His heart was racing, his head light, his vision blurring. Blood still leaked steadily from the puncture marks at his neck, the sheets felt wet with it.

Distantly, he realized Beck was speaking. “That’s my good boy— _ahhh_, fuck, sweetheart. Turn over.”

Beck slipped out with a hiss, giving him a light slap on the thigh, but Peter just smiled defiantly. He wasn’t moving. Beck was going to have to physically roll him out of this euphoric state and—oh, those were hands on his hips, doing just that, flipping him over to lay flat on his messy belly. Peter grinned into the pillow, listening to Beck whistle low and appreciative as he settled in behind him.

“Jesus, kid, look at you.” Beck gave him a playful slap to the ass, then got a hand on either side, spreading him back open. He hooked a thumb inside. “Fuck— you’re so tight.”

Peter flushed pink. Demure, as if he wasn’t lying ass-up, blissfully fucked out of his mind. His poor, overstimulated cock attempted to twitch where it lay soft and pressed between his stomach and the mattress. “Please, Beck—” Peter swallowed. _“Quentin.”_

Oh, that got a response. A sharp intake of breath and a feral growl.

“Is this what you want?” Beck asked, slapping his wet cock against Peter, rubbing up against him but thankfully not attempting to push in alongside his thumb. “Say it. Say you want me to fuck you.”

Peter whimpered, pushing back. He was spent, languid and useless, but god he still wanted it. Half-hoped Beck could keep his promise of all night.

_“Fuck me.”_

Beck withdrew his hand, cursing under his breath, and bullied his way back in with a quick snap of his hips, punching a cry right from Peter’s parted lips. His thrusts held no mercy, Beck fucked him ruthlessly and without restraint. All of his vampiric prowess came to light with every lewd slap of skin against skin. The pent-up desperation that had lingered and buzzed between them both became increasingly evident in wordless moans and the rhythmic thump of the headboard against the wall.

The whole fucking club probably heard them— but he didn’t give a damn.

Peter held on to the sheets, burying his face into the pillow to muffle his moans. He’d never been fucked this hard. This good. The only thing in his head was a litany of _oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._

“Take it— that’s right, baby, _take it_.” Beck was babbling again, every word punctuated by a sharp thrust. “You feel so good. Shit, you’re gonna make me come—”

“Oh my god,” Peter groaned into the pillow, body heating, instinctively rocking back against him. He could feel Beck growing erratic, his tight grip on Peter’s hips turned bruising.

“Where do you want me?” His voice sounded strained.

Peter could barely inspire rational thought, but he knew the answer to that question. And, as hot as the idea of Beck pulling out and jerking off on his back sounded, that wasn’t what he wanted.

That wasn’t what he needed.

Peter lifted his head, gasping for fresh breath. “In me—”

He barely got the words out before Beck was pushing in and collapsing over his back, forcing him back against the bed. Beck bit back into the tender, already torn, meat of his neck— reopening the wound for a fresh gush of blood to flow between them. He worked his hips in small circles, pumping Peter full, moaning around his throat, petting down the flanks of Peter’s sides.

It seemed like a lifetime they lay there afterward. Beck licking and kissing his neck as the adrenaline ebbed away and it began to ache and sting. His lips were cooling though, tender and thoughtful and Peter lay beneath his weight, shuddering and breathing him in.

“You know what this means now?” Beck asked quietly, kissing him just below the ear. “Don’t you?”

Peter wasn’t sure if he was talking about the sex or the bite, but he figured they both changed something in their own way. “I think so.”

“You’re mine.”

Oh.

Peter turned his head, a half-smile on his lips. Beck was handsome, and clever, and savvy—but he was also an _idiot_. “You act like I wasn’t already.”

Because it was true. All those years spent longing, spent searching, spent fighting, spent working together—? It wasn’t a coincidence. Peter knew it. Beck knew it. There was always something tethering them, and maybe Peter didn’t believe in the red ribbon of fate exactly, but he was aware of the conscious pull between them. Maybe he’d latched on, imprinted, that night when he was a kid, but Beck had always been there in the back of his mind.

“I’m not stupid enough to think that I could own you.”

“Good,” Peter hummed.

“But,” Beck curled a defensive hand around Peter’s hip, pressed his nose to the nape of his neck. “I got you, okay? I know I’m no good—”

“You’re the worst.”

Beck smacked his thigh, sighing and finally rolling off Peter to lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling with a pinched face. “I’m trying to be serious here, kid.”

“I know, I know,” Peter tucked himself beneath Beck’s arm. Much better. “Can we just—I don’t know, enjoy this? You call me a kid, but I’m not one. I don’t think that—” he paused, lifting his eyes to find Beck watching him quietly, “I don’t think this will be easy.”

“Peter—”

“So, let’s worry about that later, okay?”

It seemed an eternity before Beck finally let out a breath and dropped a kiss to Peter’s forehead. It felt strangely domestic. So…_normal_, in a way that Peter knew they weren’t. In a way that they could never be. He didn’t know what was expected of him— he didn’t know if he was ready to be turned. Or, for that matter, that he’d _ever_ be ready. Was that going to be okay? Beck’s longevity would far outlast him— and this thing between them? It was just a blip in Beck’s timeline.

Oh, god— what was going to happen when he was old and gray, and Beck still looked like a man in his prime?

“I thought you said we would worry later?” Beck’s voice snapped him out of his panic. “I can practically hear you thinking.”

“Sorry, it’s just,” Peter said, looking up at Beck’s blue eyes, his stupid cat-like smile, his hair sweaty and messy. He sighed, content and at ease, the familiar sensation of safety returning. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

A lie. It _was_ something.

It was _everything_ but—

Peter touched the mark on his neck and decided that whatever happened next, it’d be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't look at me. /eyes  
I'm sorry this took so long to get up, but they've been trying to go at it for five chapters and this just turned into a behemoth of a chapter.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who followed and left amazing feedback and put up with these two idiots! I originally intended for this to be like 6k-10k tops and well...oops. I purposely left the ending kind of open because I'd like to revisit this world one day! :D 
> 
> Again, thank you so much! I hope it was worth the wait! :')
> 
> & follow me on twitter to scream about these losers with me  
@shineonloki1


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